


I Know We're the Crooked Kind (But You're Crooked too)

by refuse_to_sink



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Shots, Bottom Derek Hale, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Face-Fucking, Frottage, Fuckbuddies, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, M/M, Motorcycle Club AU, Motorcycle Gang, Motorcycle club, Public Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Shotgunning, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-09 14:38:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 53,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3253439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/refuse_to_sink/pseuds/refuse_to_sink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale is in one of the most well known Motorcycle Clubs in America, as well as part of the well known Hale Pack. With that comes a lot of trouble, a lot of death, and a few stints in jail.</p><p>Stiles Stilinski, ex boyfriend to Derek Hale walked away from the Motorcycle Club lifestyle at the age of 22, and seven years later turns back up in Beacon Hills. With that comes even more trouble, even more death, and a few stints in jail.</p><p>Shit in Beacon Hills gets thrown upside down, and everyone is just trying to make it out alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a somewhat crossover with Sons of Anarchy, it has some of the same characters and some major plot points from that show. So if you watch SOA and don’t want spoilers, don’t read this. 
> 
> The fic is FINISHED. I’ll just be posting a chapter a day, to make sure everything is okay, as I don’t have a beta, but I’ve read, and will probably reread it to make sure everything is correct.
> 
> FIRST AND FOREMOST:  
> This is a baddie fic, where everyone, and I mean EVERYONE has very, very questionable morals. In that, they don’t give a fuck about what they do. So if you’re looking for your fav character to be all happy go lucky, this is not for you. Although this is a baddie fic, there’s no rape or anything like that.
> 
> I’ll also add tags once the whole fic is posted, but also at the end of each chapter just in case you might be triggered by anything (it’s not overly gory or bad, but I know some people would just rather stay away from messy fics).
> 
> Secondly, most of the relationships and the way things play out are not at all sane or healthy. Just pointing that out, for those who may not be into that sorta thing. Again, no rape in this fic! 
> 
> Thirdly, race, and certain motorcycle gangs (even if made up) are mentioned in this fic, and although there’s some mention of race problems, it’s usually very brief and not a main part of the fic, and no racial slurs or anything of that sort are used.
> 
> Lastly, since this has parts of Sons of Anarchy, some lingo you guys might be like ‘huh?’ if you haven’t watched. So;  
> 1\. When I mention their leather cuts, look [here](http://pistonclothing.com/products-page/soa/soa-highway-jacket/sons-of-anarchy-highway-jacket-mens-leather-cut/)  
> 2\. Prospects are members who are not fully part of the club yet. They usually have to put in their time, and by the end of a one year period the club votes whether to make them full fledged members.  
> 3\. Chapel doesn’t have anything to do with church, but rather where the club members have their meeting.  
> 4\. MC = motorcycle club.

_WOW MC (Werewolves on Wheels Motorcycle Club)_ was formed just before the 1920s by the Hale’s. It’s considered to be the first all werewolf motorcycle club, now that werewolves and _others_ have been exposed. Out in the open. Recognised.

 

The exposure of werewolves and _others_ (that most ‘ordinary’ citizens still choose to overlook, the whole ‘ignore it and hope it goes away’ mentality) meant new task forces by the governments and local PD’s were established to make sure that werewolves were treated just like everyone else. Werewolves faced jail times and had special prisons, werewolf special laws, werewolves couldn’t just go around turning people. Yada yada yada.

 

The important thing is that _WOW MC_ was the first, and arguably the most notorious well known motorcycle gang in the werewolf community. Possibly even in the human motorcycle club community as well. _WOW MC_ were vicious, ruthless, and would do anything to succeed. 

 

Unlike it’s counterparts, _WOW MC_ isn’t sexist, nor were they racist. Most MC clubs don’t allow women to sit around the table, they’re meant to be submissive, find a man and become their old lady. _WOW MC_ didn’t and will never roll like that. There has been female presidents and male presidents passed on through the generations — all Hale’s. The only condition of sitting around the table was that you had to be a werewolf, bitten or born. 

 

Talia Hale, is most well known president of _WOW MC_. She turned things around, or at least she tried, before she died. She wanted the club to go legit, stop running drugs and weapons, like her predecessors did. She wanted it to return to what it used to be, what the very first president of the MC wanted — a place for werewolves to get together, ride together, and just have a good time.

 

It wasn’t because she was a woman that she wanted these changes. It wasn’t because she was of the ‘fairer’ sex and had a soft heart. Talia Hale knew how to put down a werewolf or anyone that got in her way or threatened the club, she had absolutely no qualms about that. She was just realistic, she knew that running drugs and guns was going to catch up to the club sooner or later. Especially in this day and age, when the government and police departments were cracking down on _all_ motor cycle clubs, left, right, and centre. Plus, the next time they were thrown in jail, it wouldn’t be for a one year stint. It would be for much, much longer.

 

When she had died, along with a large portion of the Hale family in a house fire, the presidency should have been passed on to her eldest surviving child, Laura Hale. Only, Laura was never into the _MC_ , it wasn’t what she was about, so she stepped down. Logically, it should have gone to Derek Hale, but he had yet to hit 18 and that meant the next in line was Talia’s brother, Peter Hale. Laura left Beacon Hills, after transferring her Alpha power to Peter, and hardly checked in anymore. 

 

Derek was Peter’s second in command. They rode together, they worked at the Hale mechanic shop together, they were family, along with the rest of the _MC_ and, life was good. There were a few bumps along the way, but that’s to be expected. It’s nothing a long drive on a motorcycle on an open road couldn’t fix.

 

**

Stiles Stilinski, son of Sheriff Stilinski — Sheriff of Beacon Hills — and Claudia Stilinski always knew where to find trouble, and he always knew how to drag his best friend Scott down with him. From the minute he could crawl he was always in trouble and just couldn’t _ever_ keep out of it.

 

Worse yet was when Stiles was 16 and had long since learned the magic of his penis and masturbation, and orgasms. He knew how to bring himself off by his hand from the minute he hit puberty and couldn’t seem to stop. The real trouble though, was when he turned 16 and realised his interest in other people. He’d had a few crushes on girls, but when he learned of his crushes on boys, well that started something all right.

 

Stiles met Derek Hale when he was 16, and Derek was 18. Derek — in Stiles’ eyes, and the rest of Beacon Hills’ eyes — was the epitome of a bad boy. He had a motorcycle, wore his leather cut with _WOW MC_ on it everywhere he went. You could hear the roar of a motorcycle at all hours of the night and you could bet your ass Derek Hale was probably on one of them.

 

Worse than that was when Stiles’ dad soon heard the motorcycle right outside _their_ house, in the middle of the night, only to get to the window to see their son had snuck out of the house and was getting on the back of Derek’s motorcycle. Sheriff Stilinski had almost blown a blood vessel, his wife, his sweet, beautiful, intelligent, caring wife talked him down — all in his mind at least. He imagined her explaining it was no use in trying to stop Stiles, laws or the threat of being grounded wouldn’t stop Stiles one way or another. It was only a phase and soon Stiles would move on.

 

Claudia Stilinski had died two years previous due to cancer, though they all knew it was coming and, Sheriff Stilinski broke down, almost just completely _broke_. He threw his focus onto work, work, work. If the Sheriff noticed that Stiles and Derek were still going strong, he didn’t give it much notice. He mainly just tried to ignore it the best that he could. It seemed to be a Stilinski trait, ignore shit, and hope it sorts itself out. 

 

Stiles and Derek ended up dating for 6 years. Stiles had basically been considered family to the Hale’s. Although he was human and would never be allowed around the table of the _MC_ club, they showed him the respect that he deserved. Derek was after all, vice president of _WOW MC_.

 

Stiles’ dad died the last year that Stiles was in university. A shoot out in the centre of Beacon Hills, some gang retaliations or another, or so the official reports said. That damn well broke Stiles. How he managed to graduate from university, dealing with that tough last year is still beyond him, but he managed.

 

The last thing he ever wanted to see was Beacon Hills ever again.

 

He and Derek fought about that that last year of their relationship. Derek kept telling Stiles he would protect him, the _MC_ always protects their own. Stiles said he wanted out of that life. He may never sit around the table, he may have never actually joined the MC but he might as well have, with how deep he was already in with the club.  

 

Stiles walked away with his shiny new degree, and never looked back at Beacon Hills again. 

 

It’s been over seven years, and the only thing Derek’s ever heard about Stiles was that he signed up for the police academy, got shot — not fatal — and was no longer an officer. 

 

The last thing Stiles had ever heard about Derek was that he spent a year and a half in jail for weapon trafficking. 

 

**

“Derek and Boyd, I want you at the barn, check out the weapons and see how the prospects are doing,” Peter instructs from the head of the table. 

 

Derek and Boyd are sitting on either side of Peter in their respective chairs. 

 

“Why can’t I go?” Erica asks all but pouting, from where she’s sitting beside Derek. 

 

“I need you to contact Greenberg, tell him we need to keep our relationship going. We need his trucks to haul the weapons.”

 

“Still why do I always have to do that,” Erica grumbles.

 

Peter raises his eyebrow at Erica, not impressed that she’s talking back. It’s one thing to talk back when they’re just hanging around the club house, even at work, it’s another to talk back when they’re in chapel, having their MC meeting.

 

“Because, Greenberg is interested in you,” Peter explains calmly. “If I thought he’d be interested in Isaac, I’d send him.”

 

“Thank God he isn’t,” Isaac pipes up from where he’s sitting beside Boyd. 

 

“Isaac, Scott, I want you two to go up with the cabin and see how Danny is doing with Liam. The full moon is in a few days and Liam’s going to have trouble with the shift.” 

 

Liam is a new prospect for the club, applied to get bitten, and if all that goes well, he’ll be with the club for a year on probation, and after that the club votes whether they want him to become a full-fledged member.

 

Scott McCall — Stiles’ one time best friend — was bitten when they were 17, by a rogue werewolf, and left to die. The Hale’s got to Scott in time, took him under their wing, even though they had no obligation to do so. By the time Scott turned 18, he officially jointed _WOW MC_. Scott’s mom hadn’t been impressed, but she knew it was smarter that her son was a part of a pack, and protected by the _MC_ as well. Stiles at the time, didn’t think much of it, he thought it was brilliant in fact. His best friend and boyfriend part of the same club, everyone got along. 

 

Now that Stiles had got out from that life, he couldn’t understand why Scott stayed. Why Scott was so loyal to _those_ people, when Stiles was the one that’s known him his whole life. When Stiles bailed on Beacon Hills, he also bailed on Scott. 

 

The only time Scott’s even seen Stiles after he left Beacon Hills was after everyone heard Stiles got shot. Scott travelled under the radar to check in on him. He’d been left shot in the shoulder, and would recover, he’d just never be a cop again. Scott had relayed all that information to the _MC_ and specifically Derek, and that was that.

 

“Got it,” Scott and Isaac nod at the same time.

 

“Anyone else have anything they wish to add?” Peter asks, hand on the gavel ready to end the meeting.

 

Lillian, one of the other werewolves that make up the MC elite, speaks up. 

 

“There’s been chatter, the Mayan charters have been planning something, I’m not sure what, might affect us.”

 

“Then I want you and Minnie to keep an eye on that,” Peter decides, nodding towards the two woman at the end of the table.

 

“Anything you want me to do?” Winston asks. Winston, an old man, the eldest to sit around the table and has been part of the club longer than any of the others. He’s there more for show than anything else these days. His son, Opie is also part of the club, grown up around the _MC_ his whole life, much like Derek. It just seemed like the most _obvious_ choice to take that step from pack to _MC._

 

“Have a drink on me,” and with that, Peter bangs the gavel and chapel is over.

 

The gang leave the meeting room, entering into the main part of the clubhouse, where there’s various chairs sprawled about, a pool table, a bar, and kitchen area. There are rooms off to one side of the clubhouse that has little apartments for members to sleep in, if they’re not in the mood to go home, or want somewhere for a one night stand. Just outside the clubhouse, a few feet away is the Hale Mechanic shop, where almost everyone pitches in.

 

**

“Your old lady is going to get herself in some shit sooner or later,” Derek points out, straddling the bike and putting his helmet on. Boyd’s getting on his own bike, parked next to Derek’s. “She can’t keep talking back to Peter like that, not in chapel at least.”

 

“Tell me about it,” Boyd sighs. He puts his sunglasses on, fixing his helmet on his head. “If I tried to call her out on it in the middle of the meeting, she’d have my head for dinner. I’ll try and talk to her again tonight, when we’re alone.”

 

“I love Erica, she’s my sister and I’ll always have her back. She can give Peter all the hell she wants at the mechanic shop, or even around the clubhouse. But we all know Peter doesn’t take kindly to getting snarked at during meetings.”

 

“I know, I know,” Boyd puts his hands up in a placating gesture. “Peter likes to show everyone he has big balls.”

 

Derek smirks, the smallest of smirks before he starts up his bike. He really does love Erica, and he loves when she puts Peter in his place. But, there is a time and place for these things. Erica just seems to like to walk a fine line, she does love the danger.

 

“Don’t know how you can handle her flirting with Greenberg,” Derek doesn’t need to speak much louder over the roar of their motorcycles, the perks of being a werewolf.

 

Boyd just shrugs.

 

 “I trust my girl, besides it’s only a little flirting, not like she’s going to do anything.”

 

Derek understands that. He’s just always been a tad bit possessive. Erica and Boyd have a strange relationship, but it works for them apparently. They’ve been together for over 10 years.

 

Boyd and Derek pull out onto the main road, in the direction of the barn that they own through a shell company, just outside of town, so that the local PD don’t know they run their weapons through there. Plus, it keeps the crime technically out of Beacon Hills.

 

Just as they're speeding away, past the city limits, Derek sees a familiar car driving in the opposite direction of them, _into_ town. It’s a car he’d know anywhere. Not only because it’s fucking hideous, and pretty much one of a kind these days, but because it’s the car of his ex boyfriend. Stiles Stilinski.

 

They’re going too fast for Derek to have really gotten a good glimpse at the driver, but he can only assume it’s Stiles. Who else would drive that monstrosity?

 

Boyd speeds up his bike, pulling up next to Derek as they’re riding. Boyd raises an eyebrow and nods his head in the direction behind him. It would have been hard for Boyd to miss that. Derek just shrugs and motions his hands forward. A silent: ‘ _lets deal with the weapons first, and that shit storm after._ ’ 

 

Boyd, the Saint that he is, understands.

 

**

“Breathe Stiles, breathe,” Stiles mutters to himself under his breath. He taps a random rhythm on his steering wheel as he takes the familiar one road into Beacon Hills. 

 

Stiles would know Derek’s bike _anywhere_. He’s been on the back of said bike many, many times. There’s no mistaking it, that was Derek’s bike he saw. And he knows it was Boyd who was riding on his own bike behind Derek. Yep, all subtly of Stiles’ return to Beacon Hills has just flown out the window. 

 

Not that Stiles can do _anything_ subtle. Not really. But he had been planning to try and get settled before he had to deal with Derek, and the _MC_. He knows it would only be a matter of minutes once he hit the edge of Beacon Hills before someone recognised his car, or one of the werewolves recognised his scent. 

 

He leans his left arm against the sill of the window, resting his head on his hand, as he uses his right hand to steer. It effectively blocks him from seeing anyone out the corner of his eye through the window, and he focuses on the road in front of him. He takes all the usual turns, until he turns down a familiar street. The very street he learned to ride his bike without training wheels, the very street he first learned to drive a car, and the very street that he first sat on the back of a motorcycle, with one Derek Hale. ‘ _Right, forget about Derek for now_ ,' Stiles reminds himself.

 

Stiles pulls into the driveway of a very familiar house, the house he had grown up in, the house that was left to him after his father died. He didn’t have the heart to sell it, but he sure as hell didn’t want to live in it either. So, he kept the house, paid the yearly taxes on it, and had someone clean it out every few months so that it wasn't covered in cobwebs and moths. 

 

“Home sweet home,” Stiles mutters, putting his car in park and turning off the engine. He sits in the driver seat, just looking at the house. The paint is starting to peel around the windows, there’s a build up of grime around areas of the house — definitely needs a pressure wash then — other than that, it looks exactly as he remembered it. 

 

Stiles pushes the car door open, grabs his backpack and leaves his suitcase in the trunk of the car for now. He grabs the house key out of his backpack and heads up the familiar front porch, unlocks the door, pushing the door open to look around inside without yet stepping inside. 

 

He takes a deep breath and steps in, for the first time since he swore he’d never come back.

 

There’s only a light layer of dust on the front table and bench in the front hallway. The rest of the furniture further in the house is covered in plastic to preserve the fabric. 

 

Stiles is suddenly hit with the urge to turn around and run. Run the fuck away from this house, run the fuck away from Beacon Hills. He’d rather be anywhere but here. 

 

He’s about to step further into the house, into the front room that his parents hardly ever used unless they were entertaining people. It had the ‘fancy’ furniture which meant Stiles’ mom had banned Stiles from ever playing in there when he was younger, before he spilt something on the furniture, like grape juice or something. Even though that _did_ happen eventually. He’d been grounded for what seemed like an eternity at the age of seven. But a voice stops him in his tracks, frozen.

 

“It’s true, you’re here.”

 

Stiles closes his eyes and tries to think, tries to calm his heartbeat down. 

 

“Scott,” he says without turning around.

 

He’d know that voice. He just never thought he’d be so _nervous_ to talk to his one time best friend again.

 

“Someone saw your jeep driving through town, they told my mom, then she called me. I told her whoever said _you_ were back, was crazy,” Stiles doesn’t miss the way Scott spit out ‘you’ as if it were a dirty word.

 

Stiles turns on the spot to face Scott. Scott McCall, who he hasn’t seen in over seven years, who’s all grown up, sporting a full beard, his once puppy dog eyes are hard, glaring at Stiles. Scott folds his arms, his feet clad in boots far enough apart, like he’s ready to brace himself for a fight.

 

“Well, whoever it was, definitely not crazy. I’m here, I’m back,” Stiles concedes. 

 

“Why,” Scott doesn’t even make it a question.

 

“Missed Beacon Hills.”

 

“Bullshit!” Scott shouts.

 

“Listen,” Stiles warns. “I’m here to deal with the house, deal with some other shit, and I can work from anywhere pretty much. I needed a break, I’m back. I don’t want any trouble.”

 

Scott snorts, rolling his shoulders.“Good luck with that.”

 

Stiles raises his eyebrow, making to step towards Scott.

 

“Listen-”

 

“No, you listen,” hisses Scott. “You’re back in Beacon Hills and shit has changed. _WOW MC_ isn’t going to be impressed that you’re back if you’re here to start shit. You bailed, on all of us. You were the one that urged me to join _WOW_ after I’d gotten bitten. You thought it would be the best thing ever, your _boyfriend_ and your _best friend_ all part of the same group. 

 

“I never had to join the MC, I could have just stayed part of the pack. Then you decided club life wasn’t for you and you expected me to what, follow you? You _urged_ me to join, then condemned me when I wouldn’t leave. They’re my family, so you better not start any trouble.”

 

If Stiles wanted to get a word in, he was sorely mistaken. With the end of Scott’s rant, he turns on his heel and is gone. Stiles doesn’t hear the roar of a motorcycle, which meant Scott must have run here. He knows that Scott is probably going back to the club to let everyone know that Stiles is back in town. Though he supposes that’s been spread around town like wildfire already.

 

Not even a little calm before the storm.

 

**

Later that night, finds all the werewolves, both part of the pack and the _MC_ at the clubhouse for a get together bar-b-q. Although some of the Hale Pack is only pack and not part of the MC — mainly children and the humans — they’re all still family to one another, and regular bar-b-q’s and get togethers are mandatory. Although sometimes they switch it up, sometimes they get together at the clubhouse just outside the centre of town, and sometimes they get together at the Hale estate that’s surrounded by the forest.

 

Some of the non _MC_ werewolves are around the bbq, cooking lots of steaks, burgers and hotdogs, while the children are playing around the little makeshift playground they've made. Most of the _MC_ is sitting around a picnic table, drinking and chatting. And there’s only _one_ thing on everyones mind right now.

 

Though it’s the last thing Derek wants to talk about.

 

“It’s official, I saw him earlier, spoke to him,” Scott hedges. 

 

“What’s the little twerp doing back?” Erica all but snarls. 

 

Erica, sassy Erica, used to love Stiles. They got on all too well, causing all sorts of trouble. But the minute Stiles walked away from the club, that’s the minute Erica stopped loving Stiles. The club means everything to her. Ride or die.

 

Scott shrugs, shaking his head. He fiddles with the label on his beer bottle.

 

“I dunno, he made some bullshit story about dealing with the house and other shit, he wasn’t lying. Said he didn’t want to cause any trouble though.”

 

There’s a collective snort around the table.

 

“I hardly believe that,” Peter drawls.

 

“I know. But I told him that the _MC_ wouldn’t be glad he’s back, and to not mess with us,” Scott insists.

 

“Just keep him the fuck away from Derek,” Erica lectures.

 

Derek stands up, getting his legs untangled from under the picnic table bench, just to do anything really, besides listen to this conversation. All eyes turn immediately to him anyway, the opposite of what he wanted, but he suppose it was bound to happen.

 

“Don’t worry about me Erica, I can handle my shit,” Derek gives Erica a pointed look.

 

She raises her eyebrow in a challenge, but Derek doesn’t rise to the bait. He polishes off his beer, and walks away.

 

He climbs up the ladder to the building of the clubhouse, and sits down on one of the garden chairs up there. It’s his own little sanctuary up here. He used to come up here all the time when he was a kid, Laura would soon follow, along with his other siblings. These days, Derek doesn’t have any siblings around to bother him, like when he was a child. No, now he just has members of the _MC_ and his pack, which is essentially the same as siblings. He can hear the tread of boots climbing up the ladder.

 

It’s Boyd.

 

Boyd silently hands Derek another beer, sitting down in the garden chair beside Derek. He takes a sip of his own beer, as they both stare out across the horizon of town, the breeze cool and refreshing for early June.

 

_This_ is why Derek loves Boyd so much, why they’re best friends. Boyd isn’t sitting there silently judging Derek (not _completely_ anyway) he’s just sitting there, waiting for Derek. Because, Boyd knows Derek will open up when he’s ready.

 

Derek takes a few gulps of his own beer before he finally opens up.

 

“I’m going to have to see him sooner or later, hard to avoid anyone in this town.”

 

Boyd nods, not looking at Derek. They do better with these kinds of conversations focusing on anything else but each other. 

 

“That’s not really the issue though, is it? It’s more _what_ you guys have to say, if anything.”

 

“Nothing. Just make sure he’s not here to mess with the _MC_. Make sure he stays out of our paths.”

 

Boyd ‘hmms’ and takes another long sip of his beer. That’s as close as he’s going to get to snorting at the minute. Boyd knows that’s not how said conversation is going to go between Stiles and Derek.

 

“It’s what I _should_ tell him,” Derek mutters, sounding defeated.

 

“Listen, whatever you do, talk to him and tell him to fuck off, actually fuck him, avoid him, I’ve got your back and support you. Just be careful.”

 

“You mean don’t make the same mistake twice?”

 

“I _mean_ , be prepared for the consequences of whatever happens.”

 

**

The thing about the Stilinski house, Derek remembers, was that the Sheriff had lined the whole house, including Stiles’ bedroom window with mountain ash. The one stupid thing that could keep a werewolf out. The Sheriff had it infused into the wood panelling, so it wasn’t even like Stiles could break the line around the window for Derek to enter. Although, when you’re 16 and 18 respectively, and horny, you soon learn to get around these things.

 

Stiles, even at 16, wasn’t stupid enough to break the wood panelling around his own bedroom window so that Derek could sneak in. No, the Sheriff would figure that out sooner or later. Instead, Stiles broke the panelling in the upstairs window in the hallway. It wasn’t a hardship for Derek to then sneak in through that window, careful not to topple over the table and vase that was situated right underneath the window. The Sheriff was none the wiser.

 

It had worked all those years ago, and it seemed that it was going to work just as well now, more than 10 years later. 

 

Derek doesn’t bother riding his bike out to the Stilinski house, he’d be heard from miles away and it would give Stiles a chance to bail out the back of the house. Not that Derek couldn’t catch up if he wanted to, but this way was easier, and the sadistic part of him thought this way was more fun. Why not scare Stiles a little?

 

Despite Derek being older now, his joints aren’t any worse for wear, it’s not like he’s human after all. It took him a few seconds to climb the tree, make the leap towards the upstairs hall window and grab on to the ledge. He pries the window open from the side like he’d done countless times before, and enters the house. He grabs the vase before it’s about to topple to the ground, placing it back where it belongs. He straightens himself out, fixing the cut of his leather vest and stands there listening quietly, trying to figure out where Stiles is in the house.

 

He hears rustling downstairs, in the front room. 

 

By the time Derek gets downstairs, making sure to avoid the creaky steps, he stands silently in the entryway to the front room, looking at Stiles’ back. Stiles has his back to him, pulling plastic covers off of the furniture, small particles of dust floating around the room. Stiles sneezes once, then twice, and that’s when Derek makes his move.

 

He moves as fast as his werewolf speed will let him, twirling Stiles’ around, almost toppling him to the ground, before he has him pushed up against the wall, one arm across Stiles’ chest to stop him from struggling. 

 

“What the-" Stiles startles before he realises who it is. Then he just seems to get _angry_ , and tries to struggle back. Stiles isn’t an idiot, he knows how to fight, even against a werewolf. It may never be a fair fight but that doesn’t mean Stiles doesn’t have some tricks up his sleeve.

 

But then again, so does Derek.

 

Derek remembers that Stiles got shot, right through the shoulder, the left shoulder. That means it probably causes him pain every now and again, and Derek plans to take advantage of that. He takes his free hand and shoves, hard enough to cause a little pain, against Stiles’ injured shoulder. 

 

Stiles instantly flinches and stops struggling.

 

“Fuck off,” Stiles hisses, breathing heavily through his nose. Because that’s a low fucking blow.

 

Derek just raises his eyebrow, as if he doesn’t give a fuck.

 

“You knew I was back, you saw me when I was driving into Beacon Hills. You must know by now Scott came by. Just wanted to have your own little welcome home party for me?”

 

“Something like that,” Derek answers.

 

They stare at each other for a few seconds and Derek is suddenly flooded with memories. All sorts of good, amazing memories that he’d rather forget about now. He’s reminded of the first time Stiles rode on the back of his motorcycle, the first time they had sex — Stiles’ first time ever — the first time Stiles got into a fight and Derek saw how much of a little scrapper Stiles was, and it secretly turned him on. Seeing the black eye on the guy Stiles punched, the scrape across Stiles’ eyebrow, bleeding slightly, it did all sorts of things to Derek’s cock. 

 

Derek also notices the changes to Stiles now. His hair, for one, is longer, more grown out than the buzz cut he sported for the majority of the time they dated. Derek’s reminded that Stiles is _human_ , if not only by the bullet wound that he’s not so gently pushing on, a blemish to Stiles’ once perfect skin. There’s small wrinkles around Stiles’ eyes even though he hasn’t yet hit 30. All the woes of being human and getting older. Derek shakes his head and brings himself back to the present, to focus on _why_ he’s actually here.

 

“What do you even want?” Stiles huffs.

 

“What do _you_ want?” Derek counters. “You swore you’d never step foot back in Beacon Hills. Seven years later you’re back and I want to know what for?”

 

Stiles gives a little push and Derek eases up. He takes his hands off of Stiles, stepping backwards to fold his arms over his chest. It’s a defensive stance, but he doesn’t care.

 

“FYI buddy, just because we broke up doesn’t mean you got custody of Beacon Hills. I have every right to be here if I want to, I have a house, and I have friends here.”

 

Derek snorts, relaxing his hands at his sides. He looks around the deserted, dusty house and then back at Stiles. 

 

“What friends do you have here?”

 

Stiles flinches from the words, and Derek takes a little pride in seeing Stiles hurt.

 

“Lydia,” Stiles says defensively, jutting his chin out.

 

“Ah the doctor, she’s been a lot of help to the club these past few years,” Derek says raising his eyebrow with a hint of a smirk on his face.

 

It’s Stiles’ turn to cross his arms defensively.

 

“I know all about the help Lydia has provided for the _club_. She does tell me these things. That’s not to say that she likes it, but she knows as long as she’s dating Jackson, she’s always going to be linked to you shitheads.”

 

“And would you look at that, Lydia managed to become a successful doctor, make a name for herself _and_ date a member of the _MC_.”

 

Stiles snorts, turning to walk towards the back of the house, towards the kitchen.

 

“How subtle Derek. Listen, I don’t know what _your_ problem is but I don’t have a problem with you. I’m back, I don’t know for how long, but I am back. You’re going to have to get used to seeing me around town, and I do plan on talking to Scott and you can’t stop me.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Derek replies sarcastically.

 

Stiles sighs, rinsing a cup out before he fills it with a glass of water to drink.

 

“Can we at least try and be civil? Becoming best friends isn’t about to happen, I know, but you know civility?”

 

“I’ll think about it,” Derek shrugs, turning around to walk back upstairs and exit through the window.

 

“Wait,” Stiles calls out.

 

Derek stops just as he’s about to climb the stairs and watches Stiles. Stiles opens the front door, and kicks out the piece of wood that’s part of the door frame so that it’s not in place anymore, he moves to the side so that Derek can get out of the house without having to use the window. 

 

Derek nods his head in a silent thank you before he’s out the door and down the front porch.

 

**

“Why do we have to go to The Crazy Horse,” Jackson grumbles. He’s setting up the pool table to play a game against one of the other werewolves in the _MC_ , Tommy. “Why can’t we just stay here?”

 

“Because not all of us have an old lady, some of us _like_ going to bars to pick up women,” Tommy replies in his thick Scottish accent. He, along with Winston and Peter are among the oldest in the club.

 

“You know Lydia hates when you call her that,” Jackson straightens up, grabbing his pool cue.

 

Jackson, the same age at Scott and Stiles, used to be completely human. He wanted to become a werewolf, and part of the _MC_. Had wanted it since he was a teenager, even younger than that. He was envious when Scott had got bitten in high school, because although it’s more safe to bite a younger human to turn them werewolf, the _MC_ were against biting anyone underage. When Scott got bitten, he joined the Hale pack and then the _MC_. Jackson was _not_ impressed.

 

Though the minute he turned 18, he applied and was accepted and even survived the bite. Needless to say, his high school girlfriend, Lydia Martin was not impressed that her boyfriend wanted to become a lowlife outlaw. Yet, she never broke up with him, they even managed their relationship as she spent years away from Beacon Hills training to become a doctor.

 

“It’s a good thing she isn’t here then mate,” Tommy grins, leaning in to take his first shot.

 

“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Scott insists. He’s sitting on one of the black leather chairs, Isaac sitting beside him.

 

“Yeah what else is there to do on a Friday night in Beacon Hills anyway?” Isaac adds.

 

“Fine,” Jackson grumbles with a suffering sigh, like it’ll cost him an arm and a leg to actually _go out._

 

**

 

The Crazy Horse is actually a nice bar on the outskirts of Beacon Hills which has the added benefit of attracting some people from some of the busier neighbouring towns. It’s not the kind of bar where there’s loud dance music playing and people are bumping and grinding all over you,werewolves hate that, if it’s not someone they know. 

 

Instead the bar plays decent music, mostly older rock songs, with some newer ones in it. It has a chill atmosphere, with ample men and women to flirt with and good drinks to go around. It helps that the bar isn’t one of those bars that are against werewolves because they think they’ll become rowdy.

 

Derek’s nursing his third beer of the night when he sees three people walk into the bar and his blood nearly boils. He should have figured really, he’s an idiot not to have.

 

Because in walks, Jackson with Lydia on his arm, and Stiles Stilinski towing in behind them. Stiles, although probably nervous, keeps his outer appearance looking relaxed, and at ease. He’s wearing a pair of fitted, but not painted on tight jeans with some distressed rips in them, and a red plaid shirt, the top two buttons undone, exposing the long column of his neck.

 

Derek’s traitorous dick gives an involuntary jerk, because it’s Stiles, and no matter how much he wants to hate and despise the man, he cannot. Stiles is still as good looking as ever, maybe even _more_ so with two day old stubble, and his older appearance. 

 

“What’s he doing here?” Scott mumbles from where he’s sitting on a bar stool beside Derek.

 

“He is friends with Lydia,” Derek shrugs. 

 

“Hmmph,” Scott mutters, grabbing his beer and sliding off the bar stool. He walks to the other end of the bar, away from where Jackson, Lydia and Stiles are, to watch Tommy and Winston play darts.

 

“Derek,” Lydia nods her head, sidling up to the bar. She easily catches the bartenders attention and orders her usual drink, a mojito. 

 

“Lydia,” Derek replies.

 

They’re not, nor will they ever be best friends. But Lydia has been as asset to the _MC_ since she came back to Beacon Hills to be a doctor. She normally specialises in paediatric medicine, but she’s been useful in helping speed up the healing when some of the werewolves got shot or injured due to their _alternative_ activities (aka their illegal activities).

 

Derek was often surprised that Lydia even ever decided to stay with Jackson. He figured she would pull a Stiles and decided she was better than this life. But she seems to make it work, she loves her job and she loves Jackson, and didn’t let the sway of family money alter her decision to stay with Jackson.

 

“Old Milwaukee for Stiles here,” Derek says, only turning his head slightly from where he’s leaning against the bar to talk to the bartender. “Unless of course that’s not your drink of choice anymore?” Derek finishes the question, directing it towards Stiles.

 

Stiles stops behind Lydia — near the bar and beside Derek — his face showing surprise, before he then grins. 

 

“Nah, still my drink.”

 

The bartender finishes making Lydia’s drink, before handing Stiles his beer. Stiles accepts it, throwing a bill down on the bar for the bartender.

 

Lydia pats Stiles on the shoulder, giving him one of her _looks,_ the look that those two share that hold a whole conversation that no one else knows what they’re talking about, before she’s off in search of Jackson.

 

The rest of the night is spent between mild flirting between Stiles and Derek (how that happened, neither of them even know), and Stiles getting pulled in different directions from people that remembered him from when he lived here, asking where he’s been and what he’s been doing.

 

“Well, I was a cop,” Stiles explains, beer in hand, to Danny, a member of the _MC_. “Then I got shot, and now I’m no longer a cop.” Stiles lifts his beer in a silent, sarcastic, cheers before taking a large sip.

 

“So what are you doing now man?” Danny asks, genuinely interested. They may have gotten off to a rocky start in high school because Stiles is Stiles, and a bit of an ass, but over the years they became good friends. It helps that Danny, a born werewolf, and his family are part of the Hale Pack and the _MC_ — so once Stiles started dating Derek, he got to know everyone.

 

“Now I’m a lobbyist,” Stiles waggles his eyebrows.

 

“What the fuck is that,” Jackson chimes in, a group of them are standing around a large round table, talking and drinking.

 

“I work with law firms and try and persuade the government to create laws that benefit more than just themselves,” Stiles flaps his hand, the one without the beer, around. “That and working with other firms.”

 

“That sounds boring as fuck,” Jackson sighs.

 

“Shut up Jackson,” Lydia smacks Jackson in the arm. “Stiles works with one of the best firms in the country.”

 

Jackson makes a face, but doesn’t comment any further. Smart man.

 

Stiles walks back towards the bar to get another drink, finding Derek there with Boyd, Winston and Tommy. Stiles orders his drink and nods his head in a silent hello to Derek, who’s right beside Stiles.

 

“I can be civil,” Derek finally says to Stiles after a few minute. Stiles is just standing there awkwardly, drinking his beer. 

 

Stiles laughs, a short abortive laugh. 

 

“So I see. I might need a stronger drink to believe it though.”

 

“We’ll see about that,” Derek says over the lip of his beer bottle.

 

“Oh we will, will we?” Stiles counters.

 

Yep, flirting, even if it’s _barely_ flirting with your ex, two minutes after he walks into a bar isn’t the smartest thing. Ex’s should stay at opposite ends of the bar, doing their own thing, not talking to each other, not remembering old times. 

 

Neither Stiles nor Derek ever really had the willpower though, did they?

 

 

**

Derek doesn’t wake up gradually, he wakes up all at once, and only just stops short of rolling out of bed to see who the fuck is behind him. It catches up all to soon and he knows who’s behind him.

 

He feels the rhythm of steady breathing behind him, changing to a breathing pattern that indicates said person is waking up. He also feels a semi-hard cock nestled in between the crack of his ass, his very naked ass. 

 

“You awake big guy?” Stiles yawns, not moving to roll away from where he’s nestled up behind Derek. He doesn’t move his hand either that’s around Derek’s waist, and the other tucked between Derek’s side and the bed.

 

“What do you think,” Derek replies hoarsely from not having spoken for a few hours.

 

Stiles huffs, the breath ghosting over Derek’s hair.

 

“So _that_ happened last night,” and Stiles furthers his point by pushing closer to Derek. Yeah, Stiles’ cock has gone from semi-hard to fully hard.

 

“You think?” comes the sarcastic reply.

 

Derek remembers a lot of drinking, switching from beer to hard liquor throughout the night. He barely remembers how they got to the clubhouse, but the sex is definitely coming back to him. Stiles behind him, licking him open, fingering him, Stiles fucking him like he had something to prove. 

 

“Oh don’t pretend like you weren’t begging for it,” Stiles teases.

 

“Hardly.”

 

“I beg to differ.”

 

Derek pushes back, causing Stiles to lay flat on his back, and Derek manoeuvres so he’s on his stomach, looking at Stiles. He pointedly looks at where Stiles’ hard cock is outlined by the bed sheet around his waist.

 

“You beg to differ huh?” Derek asks. “Seems like you were the one doing the begging then.”

 

Stiles sniffs, squinting at Derek, he moves to sit up so his back is against the headboard. “No regrets then?”

 

“You asking for a performance appraisal or what?” 

 

“Pffft. I still know how to fuck buddy,” Stiles accuses.

 

“No complaints here,” Derek says smushing his face into his pillow.

 

“Good,” Stiles fist pumps the air like the dweeb that he is, and probably always will be. Derek wouldn’t expect anything less.

 

“Doesn’t change anything between us though,” Derek cracks one eye open from where he’s laying against the pillow.

 

Now it’s Stiles’ turn to give a pointed look at Derek.

 

“I am aware of what a one night stand slash, no strings attached fuck looks like Derek. I’m not the blushing 16 year old virgin you once knew.”

 

Derek huffs a laugh.

 

 “Yeah you had some moves there that I’ve never seen from you before.”

 

Stiles smirks, pushing the sheet off of his body, and gets off the bed in search for his clothes. Stiles is hopping in to his boxers, trying to get them on with a very prominent erection, and then into his jeans. He’s just buttoning up his shirt when he really looks around the room and stops.

 

“Did you seriously take me back to the clubhouse?”

 

Derek realises that Stiles must have noticed they’re not at his apartment, but at one of the little apartment rooms at the clubhouse. It _is_ where most of the _MC_ members bring their one night stand. Much easier to kick them out after when they’re at the clubhouse than at their own apartment. Not that, that was Derek’s intention, not really anyway.

 

“It was closer to the bar than my apartment.”

 

Stiles nods his head like he understands. It’s not like he can really complain though. Derek finally pushes himself out of bed and puts on a pair of sweatpants sans any underwear and one of the _MC_ T-shirts. 

 

Derek thankfully notices the open condom wrapper on the ground, not that they need to worry about diseases, but Derek didn’t really fancy the idea of come dribbling out of his ass while he was sleeping — the clean up is far too messy — especially for a one night stand. This way, he can just hop in the shower and forget about it.

 

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around Derek Hale. Thanks for a good night,” Stiles fake salutes Derek as he opens the door to the room and steps out into the hallway. Derek follows after him.

 

The problem with having one night stands at the clubhouse is there’s only one exit from the apartments and that’s the main entrance. Meaning said one night stands have to walk through the bar and entertainment area, where there’s always _someone_ milling about.

 

Stiles gets to do the walk of shame in front of most of the club, some (mainly the newer peopler that Stiles doesn’t know that well) whistling in approval. Stiles turns bright red. It’s not like he’s never had one night stands before, it’s just there’s not usually _this_ big of an audience the morning after.

 

Scott’s behind the bar, munching on a bowl of cereal when his eyes land on Stiles.

 

“Seriously Derek?” Scott groans.

 

“I gotta agree with Scotty boy here,” Erica chimes in, because of course Erica has to add her two cents.

 

“Scott, Erica,” Stiles nods in their direction, and then he strides out the front door like he owns the place.

 

Derek’s gotta hand it to Stiles, he handled that well. Most people that endure one night stands at the clubhouse either come out looking completely mortified, or too drunk to even give a fuck. Maybe Stiles falls in the latter category. 

 

**

Stiles manages to get a cab home, grabbing a quick shower and changing before he’s off to the hospital to meet Lydia. He’s probably still too drunk to be driving, and the thought of waiting for another cab isn’t appealing, so he decides to walk to the hospital, stopping to grab a coffee to wake him up a little.

 

So, sleeping with Derek Hale, that happened, and he finds he doesn’t even regret it one bit. It’s not like he all of a sudden stopped loving the dude or something, Stiles just realised he needed something else in his life and left. Whatever hard feelings Derek may have had for Stiles, Stiles didn’t have them. Though, he admits sleeping with him the first week he’s back in Beacon Hills probably wasn’t smart, but again, he finds he doesn’t care.

 

He dumps the cup with the last dregs of coffee in one of the garbage bins on the maternity ward, heading towards the main desk area on the floor to find if Lydia’s free yet. 

 

“Stiles!”

 

Stiles looks up to see Melissa McCall standing behind the desk. 

 

“Well don’t you look like you have a bounce in your step,” Melissa notes, smiling at Stiles.

 

Stiles stops in his tracks — does he? — is it that obvious that he got laid last night? Embarrassingly enough, it’s probably blatantly obvious. 

 

“Melissa,” Stiles smiles, walking towards the desk. “You sure you shouldn’t be cursing my name, at the sight of me back in Beacon Hills?”

 

“I actually am,” she says seriously, walking around the desk, towards Stiles.

 

Stiles just looks at her, not sure what to say.

 

Melissa rolls her eyes and grabs Stiles’ arm, dragging him a few feet away from the desk and towards some patient area seating, thankfully it’s not very busy so they have the area to themselves. She shoves Stiles down into one seat, taking the one beside him.

 

“Not for the reason you think love,” she informs him. 

 

“What other reason is there to curse my name?”

 

Melissa smiles softly at Stiles, one of those soft reserved smiles that means she’s going to say something important. Stiles would know that smile, it’s the same smile his mom gave him when she explained that she had cancer but didn’t want to frighten Stiles.

 

“You think I had a problem with you leaving, it’s the opposite in fact. I have a problem that you’re _back_. You were the one that got away from this life Stiles, got away from the club and their troubles — and now?”

 

“Your son is in that club,” Stiles scrunches his face up, confused.

 

“My son is in that club because he got bitten. They can take care of him in more ways than I can anymore. He needs them, and by extension that means I’m in. You, you were the one that had a clean break.”

 

“Just because I’m back in good ol’ BH doesn’t mean I’m automatically back in the club,” Stiles points out, leaning his head against the wall, looking at the ceiling.

 

Melissa pats Stiles on the knee, giving it a firm squeeze before she stands up.

 

“I wish I believed that kiddo.”

 

Stiles watches as Melissa walks away, rolling his head from side-to-side against the wall before he stands up following Melissa back to the station. 

 

“What are you doing up in the maternity ward anyway, aren’t you normally in ER?”

 

“Short-staffed, you know how it is, budget cuts. I said I’d help with some of the paperwork for the week so the other nurses can focus on the babies.”

 

Stiles nods his head in understanding. He leans over the reception desk, grabbing one of the lollipops from the glass bowl, a red one because they’re the best. Melissa haphazardly slaps his hand away, not actually caring.

 

“Lydia around?”

 

Melissa walks towards the computer, clicking the mouse and presumably going through the schedule.

 

“She’s in surgery, should be out in a little while if there are no complications, wanna wait around?”

 

“If that’s not a problem,” Stiles nods, sucking on his lollipop.

 

“Of course not, just no going to the baby window and trying to compare which baby looks like which character from Star Wars” Melissa warns. Something Stiles and Scott did when they were much younger and used to roam around the hospital waiting for Melissa and Claudia to finish their shift— well Stiles claimed which baby looked which which Star Wars character — Scott chose random cartoon characters or celebrities. The parents of the babies were not impressed that their baby was being compared to Yoda. 

 

“I still stand by the fact that, that baby looked _exactly_ like Mr Bean,”

 

“That baby was a _girl_ Stiles,” Melissa huffs.

 

“So,” Stiles shrugs grinning around his lollipop.

 

Stiles does actually listen to Melissa though. He doesn’t go anywhere near the baby window to see all the new borns, instead he walks the halls until he finds Lydia’s office, entering, and making himself at home. He passes the time playing Tetris on Lydia’s computer, and although she’ll be mad that he’s even using her computer, she should be happy he’s not doing anything _else_ on that computer. 

 

Once Lydia finished in surgery, they make their way down to the cafeteria to get their lunch. Unfortunately the special of the day is meatloaf, and normally Lydia would scoff at eating something that looked like it belonged in the morgue — but she had woken up late and didn’t have time to make a proper lunch, and they didn’t have time to go out and get a proper meal.

 

They walk to a quiet corner of the cafeteria, by the windows to look out in one of the hospital gardens. There’s a few patients strolling about with their saline IV bag, and hospital slippers.

 

Lydia pokes around the meatloaf before finally putting some in her mouth. If she didn’t have another surgery today she would skip lunch and wait until her shift was over. Instead, she actually needs to fill her body with sustenance so she can concentrate when she’s in the OR.

Stiles waits exactly 2 and a half minutes after they sit down, when Lydia finally mentions the one thing he knew she would mention. He’s surprised it actually took her this long, to be honest.

 

“So you slept with Hale,”

 

“Which Hale would that be?”

 

Lydia rolls her eyes, digging into the processed mash potatoes that she’s dumped a lot of gravy on so it at least tastes semi-decent.

 

“Got a thing for Peter all of a sudden?”

 

Stiles scrunches up his face and almost wants to puke. Sleeping with Peter Hale would be ten thousand times worse than having to eat hospital cafeteria food for the rest of his life.

 

“Spill it Stilinski.”

 

Stiles sighs, shoving his tray aside. Unlike Lydia, Stiles can actually wait until he’s out of the hospital to get a decent meal. The coffee and lollipop he had earlier will have to tide him over.

 

“Yes I slept with him,” Stiles says looking anywhere but Lydia. “I woke up at the clubhouse, did the walk of shame as all the _MC_ saw me. Scott and Erica looked like they were ready to tear me a new one.”

 

“I’m not even surprised,” Lydia states.

 

Stiles finally looks at Lydia, narrowing his eyes and really taking her in, waiting. She doesn’t say anything else for a few seconds and Stiles figures that’s all she actually has to say.

 

“Really? No lectures?”

 

“Would there be any point?”

 

“I suppose not,” Stiles sighs. “Some pointers on how to get Scott to talk to me soon, and stop Erica from being ten seconds away from disembowelling me would be helpful though.”

 

Lydia ‘ _hmms_ ', swallowing a chunk of her meatloaf and taking a sip of her water.

 

“With Scott, well you know you just have to corner him and make him talk. He was your best friend, he’s only pretending to hate you, he’s hurt. With Erica, you have to buy her love, buy her the new _Naked Palette_.”

 

Stiles groans, throwing his head back, running his hand down his face.

 

“Why do I even know what the _Naked Palette_ is? I shouldn’t know makeup.”

 

Lydia laughs, patting the hand that Stiles has resting on the table.

 

“We did live together when I was in med school, even shared a bathroom,” at that Lydia scrunches her face. Lydia vowed from now on to always have her own bathroom, doesn’t matter if she ever gets married or what, she _needs_ her own bathroom.

 

“You’re right though,” Stiles concedes. “Looks like I have some shopping, and cornering to do without getting mauled by an angry werewolf.”

 

They finish their lunch — well Lydia finishes her lunch — and they kiss on the cheek goodbye. Lydia heads back up to work and Stiles heads back out of the hospital in search of some edible food. 

 

Stiles _is_ honestly surprised that Lydia didn’t lecture him on the fact that he slept with Derek, but then again she does have a point. No matter how much advice she gives, he’s hardly going to listen now is he? He’s great at giving advice, he’d tell anyone else in his position to absolutely under no circumstance, to sleep with their ex. 

 

So, of course, Stiles doesn’t listen to his own advice.

 

**

Stiles spends too much time, and too much money at the makeup counter in Beacon Hills’ only department store. He not only picks up the _Naked Palette_ but also a whole host of other _Urban Decay_ makeup that he has the sales assistant put into a basket and wrap it so it looks pretty.

 

Stiles ignores the sales assistant’s quip about Stiles’ girlfriend being one lucky woman. He doesn’t have the time nor inclination to say that this is a bribery present, and he just wants to make sure that he doesn’t get killed. 

 

An hour later Stiles is walking out of the department store with a giant ass basket with a bounty of makeup that cost more than Stiles spends on _any_ grooming products in a year, but as long as it works, it’s money well spent. 

 

Stiles isn't stupid though, he knows walking into the wolf’s den (figuratively and literally) today, right after they saw Stiles doing the walk of shame isn’t the smartest idea. He’ll have to save his present for Erica, and cornering of Scott for another day.

 

**

The _Elite Alpha Motorcycle Club_ is still to this day _WOW MC’s_ biggest rival, for many reasons. They’re constantly fighting over who has the largest share of the gun running and drug muling. The biggest problem though is the _Elite Alpha Motorcycle Club’s_ supposed involvement in the fire that caused many of the Hale’s death. It’s never been one hundred percent proven by _WOW MC,_ and it’s not something the cops have given much more than their obligatory time looking into it. 

 

The only thing stopping _WOW MC_ from declaring full out war with the _Elite Alpha MC_ was the fact that it would cause too many problems for all the innocent people in Beacon Hills, and around the Beacon Hills area, it’s not something the _MC_ is fully prepared for. Instead, they deal with trying to take down the _Elite Alpha MC_ club one step at a time. Those first steps being having controlling interest in the guns coming in from Russia and the drugs muling from Mexico, through Arizona into California where the _WOW MC_ mule it to Oregon. 

 

The _MC_ are in chapel a few days after Derek’s one night stand with Stiles, organising the weeks activities and making sure everyone has their designated jobs. 

 

“We have a shipment of drugs coming in from our brothers from the Arizona charter, _Elite Alpha MC_ are probably going to try another attack on our trucks so we need more security,” Peter announces to the members sitting around the table.

 

“Who’s going to drive the truck?” Erica asks.

 

“Lillian and Scott, I want you two in the truck,” Peter looks towards the two werewolves. “Derek, Boyd, and Tommy I want you three with the truck at all times, weapons ready in case _Elite Alpha MC_ try anything.”

 

“Got it,” Tommy nods his head in understanding. 

 

“I want the drugs stored at the barn, the cartel will collect it in a few days, I want prospects there around the clock, I don’t want an ambush.”

 

“We have the prospects rotating their shifts around the barn non-stop when we have shipments going through there,” Derek nods his head. “They’re careful to make sure no one’s following when they get there. I doubt _Elite MC_ even know about the barn. If they did they would have tried to make a hit by now.”

 

“Erica, Derek, Minnie and myself will handle the gun run up to Oregon in a week’s time,” Peter states.

 

Everyone nods their head in understanding.

 

“Nothing else to add?” Peter asks.

 

When no one has anything else to say, he bangs the gavel, declaring the meeting over. Everyone leaves the room, heading back to the garage to get back to work.

 

**

Derek’s hunched over the engine of a Prius trying to find out what’s wrong with this soccer mom’s car before she comes back to pick it up the evening. Derek can deal with _a lot_ of unruly customers, but when it comes to soccer mom’s, it’s a lost cause. Those woman are terrifying.

 

He’s completely focused on the car, double checking that the oil is okay when he hears Erica’s voice trail in from the front office.

 

“What the fuck is _he_ doing here?” she spits.

 

Derek doesn’t have to stand up and look to see who it is. Even over the smell of oil and gasoline surrounding him, Derek can make out the scent of one Stiles Stilinski. He figures it wouldn’t be in good etiquette to just keep his head down and keep working on the car, no matter how much he would actually rather be doing that.

 

He stands up, wiping the excess oil and grease on his hand on the front of his dark blue work overalls, adding to the all the old oil stains. Derek watches as Stiles gets out of his hideous blue jeep, and leans into the back to grab something — a basket? — Derek notices. 

 

Derek walks around the car, heading towards the entrance of the large garage door to get a better view of Stiles. 

 

The basket is nearly as large as Stiles, as he carries it with two hands in front of him, almost tripping over an untied shoelace before he quickly rights himself and keeps on walking farther into the garage.

 

“Stiles?” Derek asks/greets as Stiles walks right past him without even so much as a glance.

 

“‘Sup Derek? Not here to see you right now,” Stiles replies, determinedly walking towards the office area.

 

Derek looks on stunned as Stiles walks straight into the office and dumps the basket on the desk in front of Erica, a few papers rustling to the ground.

 

“For you,” Stiles announces to Erica, holding his arms out to say: ‘ _look at all this.’_

 

Erica looks startled, narrowing her eyes at Stiles, and then lets her eyes wander to the large basket covered in plastic with a piece of colour string tying the top shut like a pretty present. Her eyes linger on the basket for a few seconds and Derek can see, even from this far away, her eyes practically sparkle.

 

“For me?” Erica asks, even though Stiles has already told her as much.

 

“A peace offering,” Stiles nods. “Might as well be honest right?”

 

Derek walks towards the entrance of the office door, leaning against it and watches as Stiles stands on the opposite side of the desk to Erica, as she pulls the string undone and removing all the plastic from the basket. Make up, Derek notices. Oh, Stiles is smart all right.

 

“Oh my God, is this the new _Naked Palette?_ ” Erica practically squeals.

 

“Mhmm,” Stiles nods, rocking back on his heels with a smug grin. “And basically every other product _Urban Decay_ sells.”

 

Erica grins, taking each item out of the basket and looking at it, before moving on to the next item. Most woman love flowers or chocolate, Erica loves makeup. Buy her the latest nail polish or mascara and she’s ecstatic.

 

“Stiles Stilinski, you are one sneaky little worm and I don’t even give a fuck right now,” Erica declare standing up. She moves around the desk, and punches Stiles lightly in the arm. It’s as close to a: “ _I don’t completely hate you right now_ ” as Stiles is going to get. When she’s _really_ not pissed off anymore she’ll bring Stiles into the tightest hug possible.

 

“I play to my strengths,” Stiles concedes, leaving Erica to peruse through all her new makeup. 

 

Stiles walks past Derek, out of the office, winking as he goes. Derek shakes his head with a little smile, following Stiles farther back into the garage and away from the office.

 

“Scott?” Stiles asks, looking hopeful.

 

Derek nods his head towards the back door. 

 

“Out back sorting out old tires.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

With that Stiles is out the back door in search of his old best friend, and Derek gets back to working on the Prius.

 

**

Stiles knew Erica would be easier to please and win over than Scott. In the old days Scott would have been the easier one to win over, but these days Scott has changed, but then again so as Stiles. That’s what happens when you grow up and grow apart, seven years away from each other. But, Stiles is nothing if not persistent.

 

“Scotty,” Stiles greets as he steps out the back of the garage. Scott is currently throwing old tires into the flatbed of a truck. Scott pauses just as he’s about to throw a tire, dropping it, and turns to look at Stiles.

 

Scott wipes the sheen of sweat off his forehead and looks at Stiles, waiting.

 

“Got a minute?”

 

“Kinda busy here,” Scott points towards the pile of tires waiting to be loaded.

 

“Five minutes? You know I can just talk as you work, and keep on talking, and talking. You know how many words I can get out in a minute,” Stiles tries.

 

Scott huffs, flopping down on the pile of old tires, waving his hand as if to continue.

 

Stiles nods his head, moving towards Scott, but not sitting on the old tires. He really doesn’t need dirt and oil all over his jeans.

 

“I don’t know what to say,” Stiles starts. “Or rather, _how_ to say it. You knew I had to leave, had to go and do something on my own. I couldn’t just stay in Beacon Hills anymore. I admit, how I went about it was wrong, I basically up and vanished, I didn’t keep in touch and the fact that I expected you to just come along with me wasn’t fair.”

 

“You think,” Scott interrupts, scoffing.

 

“And I’m sorry for that, I really am,” Stiles tries. “I know what the Hale pack and the _MC_ have done for you, they protected you, they’re your family now. I get that. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to try and rebuild my friendship with you buddy.”

 

“So you can bail again?”

 

Stiles knows he deserves that. He walks toward the truck, hopping up and sitting on the edge of the flatbed, his legs dangling down.

 

“Fair enough, I deserve that. But whether I stay in Beacon Hills or hit the road again, I won’t do it the way I did last time. I’ll stay in touch, we’ll always make plans to meet up, Skype, text, call, smoke signal, whatever you want.”

 

Stiles can see that Scott is breaking down, his eyes are softening, his body isn’t as rigid, it’s a small step but Stiles will take what he can get at this point.

 

Scott gets up from the bed of tires, and strides towards Stiles. Stiles hops down from the truck, waiting.

 

“You’re still on probation though,” Scott informs.

 

And yeah, Stiles can handle that.

 

Scott scoops him up into a big hug, giving him a quick squeeze before letting him go. 

 

“Don’t think I won’t be keeping an eye out on you.”

 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Stiles smiles as he heads back into the garage.

 

He’d say his day was pretty successful after all.

 

**

Derek can tell when Stiles reenters the garage. He can hear his footsteps, smell his scent, and most annoying of all, his stupid whistling. Stiles, in Derek’s opinion, seems to like to think he should always be walking around with a top hat and a cane, whistling while he walks. It used to drive Derek insane, and apparently it still does.

 

Derek, hunched over the engine, can see Stiles’ torso come into view out of the corner of his eye. Stiles’ back is resting against the front of the car, right beside Derek. Derek, pretends to ignore him, fiddling with the car. He knows he’s not fooling anyone.

 

“Thought I was coming to see you big guy?” Stiles asks, slouching down to lean against the front bumper of the car, his hands steadying him.

 

“Yeah,” Derek replies drily. “I thought you were bringing me flowers.”

 

Stiles scoffs, drumming his fingers on the front bumper of the car. In the next second, he’s suddenly standing up and it makes Derek pause, glancing at Stiles. Stiles has a gleam in his eyes that can only mean one thing, trouble.

 

“C’mon,” Stiles beams walking away from Derek, not giving him a chance to object. 

 

Of course, Derek could just ignore him and go back to fixing the Prius. But, Derek’s curiosity is peaked, and it only takes him a few strides to catch up with Stiles.

 

Derek was not — but really, he should have — expecting to get led to a closet that has some old tools and spare parts for cars. 

 

The door shuts with a click, the automatic light giving a few flickers before it finally stays on. Derek leans against the door, and watches as Stiles walks backwards, farther into the small closet, a mischievous smile on his face as his hands begin to undo his zipper. 

 

Derek’s throat goes dry, unable to move, his eyes fixed on where Stiles has already undone his jeans, pushing them down along with his boxers only far enough so that he can get his cock out. Stiles strokes his cock a few times, and Derek is mesmerised as he watches it starting to get harder and harder in Stiles’ hand.

 

It does things to Derek’s cock, twitching underneath his mechanic overalls and boxers.

 

“So, if we go through with this, and I hope we do, it apparently changes things. Not a one night stand, first of all, it’s not night, and second of all, this would be our second time in less than a week,” Stiles begins, his head cocked to the side, eyes on Derek. His hand is still stroking his now hard cock, his breath starting to become uneven. “No strings attached, a quick fuck, you go back to work, I go off and do whatever it is I do,” Stiles finishes.

 

Derek doesn’t remember moving, but the next thing he realises, he’s standing in front of Stiles, no longer leaning against the door. Stiles hums his approval, and Derek’s standing so close he can _feel_ Stiles stroking his own cock, Stiles’ fist bumping into Derek’s front. Bumping into Derek’s already hard cock and it’s no where near enough contact for Derek, but he relishes it all the same.

 

Derek still hasn’t said anything, but that doesn't stop Stiles, he’s too cocky now. He leans forward so that his mouth is at the shell of Derek’s ear, letting his breath ghost over Derek’s ear and down his neck, it’s enough to cause Derek to shiver in desire.

 

“What do you say big guy?” Stiles finally asks, the press of warm lips finally touching Derek’s ears.

 

That purposely physical touch, not just the brush of knuckles over Derek’s overalls from Stiles stroking himself, snaps Derek out of his haze. He groans, pushing Stiles until his back hits one of the metal shelves, and Stiles’ hands go flying to catch himself, gripping the support beam of the shelf with his left hand. 

 

Derek’s on his knees, pulling Stiles’ jeans and boxers down farther so that they lay around his ankles. 

 

This is the first time Derek’s really seen Stiles’ cock in over seven years. The last time, Stiles fucked Derek senseless and he hardly got to see Stiles’ dick, not to mention they were both more than a little drunk.

 

This time though, they’re both stone cold sober, making the conscious decision to have sex, yet again, despite the fact that they’re no longer together.

 

But, Stiles’ cock is just like Derek remembers. It’s hard to forget something he’s been well acquainted with for over seven years, even if he hasn’t seen it, in just about the same amount of time.

 

Derek reaches out with his right hand, gripping Stiles’ cock firmly from the base and starts to stroke it, his grip tight like he likes on himself, and knows Stiles likes the same. He strokes a few times, watching with fascination as beads of pre-come come soak the head of Stiles’ dick.

 

Derek looks from the tip of Stiles’ cock, up through his lashes to Stiles’ eyes. Stiles’ eyes are glued to Derek, staring him straight in the eye, his breath coming out faster and more uneven. Derek hasn’t seen Stiles like this in a long, long time, and he forgot how much he missed it.

 

Derek doesn’t let the drop of pre come hit the floor, instead he breaks eye contact with Stiles and leans in forward just in time to catch it on the tip of his tongue. He hasn’t even put his mouth on Stiles yet, Stiles can only feel the breath of Derek on his cock but it’s enough to make Stiles moan.

 

When Derek finally wraps his lips around the head of Stiles’ cock, Stiles’ knees almost give out, if it weren’t for the grip on the shelf and Derek’s left hand curved around Stiles’ hip. 

 

“Fuck, fuck.”

 

Derek just closes his eyes, listens to Stiles’ repeated swearing. He continues to suck Stiles off, stroking him at the same time. When he feels Stiles’ hand in his hair, messing it up, before gripping it, and _that_ means it’s Derek’s turn to moan around Stiles’ cock.

 

“Fuck,” and that seems about all Stiles can manage at the minute, word-wise.

 

But, Stiles takes the blatant invitation from Derek’s moan as the go-ahead. He starts to push his cock farther into Derek’s mouth, Derek’s right hand dropping away from where he was jerking Stiles off. Each time, Stiles pushes his dick farther into Derek’s mouth before easing back out. He repeats it, going faster and harder each time.

 

Derek can feel the spit dripping down his chin, knows he probably looks like a fucking _mess_ right now. His mouth getting filled by a cock and his own cock is trapped in his boxers, so fucking hard and aching and he can’t even get to it right now. 

 

“Come. Soon.”

 

It’s not a complete sentence, but Derek does remember ‘Stiles speak,’ and knows that it means Stiles is going to come any minute and is giving Derek warning. 

 

Derek only sucks harder, his own speak for ‘it’s okay’ and that only causes Stiles to groan even louder, bucking his hips a few more times before he’s coming in Derek’s mouth, his hand falling away from Derek’s head.

 

Derek eases off of Stiles’ cock, swallowing. 

 

Derek’s barely standing up before Stiles is attacking Derek’s overalls, zipping them down from the top to the crotch area. Stiles pushes the overalls off of Derek’s shoulders and gets the sleeves down his arms, revealing the plain white t-shirt Derek’s wearing. Stiles peels Derek’s boxers down, grabbing the hard cock resting against Derek’s stomach.

 

The _sounds_ Derek makes. 

 

“I guess there’s no denying what we’re doing in here,” Stiles says into the crook of Derek’s shoulder, his motor functions back up and running.

 

That only makes Derek groan louder. Not that he was ever an exhibitionist, but then again, Stiles mades him do things he never imagined he’d do or want. Derek just drops his forehead onto Stiles’ shoulder, his eyes screwed shut as he just _feels_ Stiles’ hands on his cock, stroking, urging him to orgasm.

 

“That shouldn’t really make this any hotter, should it?”

 

Derek’s only answer is to bite down on Stiles’ clothed shoulder.

 

It doesn’t take much longer for the pre come to slick Derek’s cock and make it easier for Stiles to stroke faster and tighter. Stiles turns his head, nosing at Derek’s hair, and he smells like oil, sweat, and sex. It reminds Stiles that they _are_ in a closet, surrounded by mechanic tools and car parts and Stiles doesn’t even fucking care. He could give less of a fuck.

 

Not when he has Derek’s cock in his hand, Derek’s mouth on his shoulder, and not with the noises Derek is making.

 

When Derek pushes himself to stand up taller, his mouth now off of Stiles’ shoulder, Stiles knows Derek’s going to come any second. There’s no where for Derek to actually come without making a mess, so Stiles just strokes him through his orgasm, trying to catch most of it in his hand.

 

“Fuck,” Stiles says for the millionth time after Derek’s come.

 

Derek opens his eyes, shaking his head like he’s just come out of a dream. His eyes land on the come, _his_ come on Stiles’ hand — and no, definitely not a dream. He quickly pulls his boxers up, tying the overall sleeves around his hips, reaching behind Stiles, up on a higher shelf and grabs a bag full of micro fibre cloths. He pulls one out and hands it to Stiles.

 

“Pretty sure that’s not it’s intended use.”

 

“Could just use your jeans if you wanted,” Derek retorts.

 

“Uh it’s your come, I’d use your overalls.”

 

“Some of us have to get back to work,” Derek counters, but not unkindly. 

 

Stiles makes a face, looking at the soiled micro fibre cloth, and then towards the closet door.

 

“Oh God, we really did that.”

 

Derek rolls his eyes, turning around and heading towards the door. The overalls are still tied around his hips, but at least he has a t-shirt on. He hears Stiles yelp behind him and smirks to himself. Stiles has only just realised that his own cock is still out, his jeans and boxers around his ankles. 

 

Derek is back at the Prius, putting the key in the ignition to see if it’ll finally start when Stiles finally emerges from the closet, with his jeans on. He has the cloth in his hand and tries to throw it away as discreetly as he can in one of the garbage cans around the garage.

 

Just as Stiles is leaving out one of the large open garage doors, waving at Derek, Erica yells out.

 

“You two are **disgusting** , and I’m officially mad at you again Stiles.”

 

Derek snorts, thankfully it’s muffled over the engine of the Prius.

 

**

Stiles is sitting on his bed, leaning against the headboard, working on his newest proposal. The law firm he now works for has assigned him as head of legislative affairs for one of the firms they represent — a company recycling old phones and electronics. It’s a pretty big deal that they’ve made Stiles the director, he’s more than proved himself, and going back to get his masters certainly helped — just not his bank account. 

 

He’s well into the proposal, and he’ll have more than enough to show his team in a few days time when they have their meeting, when his phone alarm goes off. 

 

It’s exactly 11 PM.

 

Stiles sighs, picks up his phone and turns off the alarm. He swipes open to the main screen, pulling up his contacts and dials the number listed under ‘Pizza.’ He waits the two predictable rings, before a woman answers.

 

“Hello.”

 

“This is Stiles Stilinski calling for Wolfsbane.”

 

“Password?”

 

“Romeo, Alpha, Tango.”

 

“Confirmed, do you have any information on _WOW MC_ for me?”

 

Stiles leans his head back against the headboard, the phone still to his ear, staring at the ceiling. He takes a deep breath before answering.

 

“No, I haven’t been back long and it’s too early.”

 

“You’ve been back two weeks now Mr Stilinski. Have you been taking your pills?”

 

Stiles sighs, rubbing his hand over his face.

 

“I _know_ that. I’ve only gotten closer to Derek now, there’s no way the _MC_ is going to welcome me with open arms. And yes, I have been taking my pills, I don’t need to end up dead, thanks.”

 

There’s a pregnant pause before the woman speaks again.

 

“You haven’t slept with Derek or interacted with him in any sexual way, have you? That was strictly advised against, it’ll be too suspicious.”

 

Stiles closes his eyes and silently thunks his head against the headboard, well fuck.

 

“Listen I got it handled Stahl.”

 

“I highly doubt that,” the woman sighs impatiently, clicking off the phone.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can read the warnings at the end of you're concerned about what happens in this chapter.
> 
> Plus, I play fast and loose with where Beacon Hills actually is, because I refer to towns mentioned in SOA.
> 
> Also, I might not be able to post tomorrow, but on Sunday I definitely will. Depends on how held up I get at work, but rest assured the fic is finished.

Derek’s sitting in his normal seat beside Peter in their club meeting room, waiting for chapel to start. His mind can’t help but wander to the hookup he had with Stiles, in the supply closet at his work, like he’s still 20 and itching to get off. Though he’ll be the first to admit that it was totally worth it. Consequences be damned.

Derek only clears his head when the final person enters the room, not exactly part of the MC but close enough to be privy to all the pertinent information — Alan Deaton. Deaton has been a confident to Talia Hale for many years and when she died, Deaton’s allegiance was automatically transferred to Peter.

Deaton knows all about the drug running, gun smuggling, and other nefarious activities the MC gets their hands in, as well as their legitimate businesses, such as the mechanic shop. Deaton often advises on the best way to get around various law enforcements without getting caught, how to further the club’s businesses, and introduces and acts as the go-between with various gangs, human or not.

Of course, Deaton doesn’t do this all out of the goodness of his heart, he charges a hefty fee for his advice, but the MC know it’s worth it. It’s one of the main reasons why they’ve been so successful while other clubs have failed, and landed their asses in jail.

“Ah Deaton, glad you’re here, we’re ready to start,” Peter drawls. He bangs the gavel, signifying the beginning of a meeting. Derek rolls his eyes, because Deaton hardly kept them waiting two minutes, but Peter was ever the dramatic.

Deaton just nods his head, and takes his seat, not around the table but a little behind Peter.

“We’ve got a new shipment of drugs coming through Mexico at the end of the week, DEA has been on our ass lately, we need a work around, thoughts Deaton?” Peter asks.

“This is getting too fucking risky,” Opie chimes in from around the table.

All eyes turn to him, but it’s obviously Peter’s that’s practically boring daggers into him.

“You seem to forget that we already had a vote on the drug running Opie, we ruled in favour.”

“You seem to forget that I was in jail.”

Opie, son of Piney, has only just been released from jail a few months ago after a five year stint after he was arrested and convicted for an arson job gone wrong with a former club member, Kyle. Kyle had abandoned Opie during the arson job, which resulted in Opie getting arrested in the first place. The MC doesn’t deal with deserters very well, Kyle was excommunicated from the club, never to be seen again.

“And we proxied your vote, you said no, you’re not in favour of drug running, it was noted. Unfortunately, for you at least, majority rules.”

“And what did you promise the members that were on the fence to vote in favour of you?” Opie says with a measured calmness that he’s certainly not feeling.

Everyone tenses around the table. Even Erica isn’t that stupid or risk loving to say something like that to Peter.

Derek knows he needs to intervene, and intervene quickly before this chapel meeting turns into a full out brawl, with broken tables, chairs, doors and lots of blood. That’s how these things typically go.

Derek clears his threat, banging his right hand on the table to gather everyone’s attention. He speaks, looking directly at Opie, his good friend, trying to get to him with only a look, make him understand, before Peter explodes.

“Ope, there’s nothing we can do about this right now. Unless you want to call another vote on the drug running, you know how that’s going to go though, so lets deal with the problem at hand,” Derek reasons.

Opie barely nods his head, glancing towards his father Piney. Piney was the second of the three people that weren’t in favour of drug running.

“Now,” Peter sniffs. “Back to business. Deaton, any ideas on how to get around DEA.”

Deaton stands, starts to walk up and down the length of the table as he talks. He doesn’t talk with his hands, isn’t very animated, but he always prefers to stand while talking to the MC rather than sit down, around the outside. The pacing is just a side effect.

“Well,” he starts. “As I’ve said before, I think it’s a risk that you store the weapons and drugs in the same area. If DEA or ATF or any other agency gets a hint of what’s going on there, and raid the place, you’re in serious trouble. If a rival gang tries to make a hit, they may get away with both the guns and drugs. It’s better to split the two up, safer and more pragmatic.”

“Pragmatic? Where else will we store one if we store the other at the barn? We’d need more prospects or members to keep an eye out on both locations,” Peter interrupts.

Deaton stops at the opposite end of the table, beside Piney, turning around to look at Peter. He smiles, his “I know something you don’t know, but going to soon” smile.

“I have a solution, though it’ll take some capital from the MC.”

Peter rolls his eyes, crossing his hands over the table. “What a surprise Deaton, you want us to spend more money, do tell.”

Peter hates spending unnecessary money. He likes to retain as much as he can so that all the members get a hefty split of their share. But Peter isn’t stupid, he also knows you have to spend money to make money.

“There’s a laundromat in Stockton, run by a Jewish man, Lumpy. As you can imagine, he doesn’t get along with the members of LOAN and their white supremacist, racist views. They often try and give him trouble, trying to get him to sell the business. Lumpy, an old man, it’s his last possession, no living family. He’d be more than willing to store the drugs at the laundromat, hide the shipments in along with the cleaning products, lots of powder coming and going from there, it won’t raise any suspicion.

Not to mention, he has no previous affiliation with the MC and therefore he won’t be on any of the government agencies radars. He won’t want a cut from the drug business, he makes more than enough money form the laundromat, all you’d have to provide was security for him-”

“We’re not a security firm,” Tommy interjects.

“Nor do I expect you to be one,” Deaton raises an eyebrow. “All the LOAN members need to see is you have one meeting with Lumpy, they’ll know that he’s under your protection and I highly doubt that they want you guys on their backs, too much trouble for what it’s worth.”

Peter tilts his head to the side, considering. “So, we provide this Lumpy with protection, and he stores our drugs for us, all without wanting a cut of the profits? And he’s reliable?”

“Precisely,” Deaton nods his head.

Peter nods his head, still considering, he looks to Derek.

Derek mirrors Peter’s nod, understanding what he means.

“Lets take it a vote then.”

Peter raises his hand, “yes.”

Derek raises his hand, “yes.”

They go around the table, getting a yes, after yes.

That is, until they get to Piney, who shakes his head no. Opie, to his right, shakes his head no.

There’s a few more yeses until it’s Scott’s turn, shaking his head.

“Sorry, no.”

All in all, there are three no’s and 11 yeses. Although Bobby is still in jail for a previous crime, they proxied his vote yes, as he voted yes to the drug running previously. Even if he said no, it was a clear cut decision, Lumpy would now hide the drugs in his laundromat.

It’s no surprise that Piney would say no to the drugs. Piney, like Talia, agreed with the club moving towards a direction in which everything was legitimate, no more illegal activities. Piney knew that it would be no easy or fast feat, and Piney knew they weren’t going to get out of gun running anytime soon, but he never thought drug running was a good idea.

Opie was against the idea of drugs because his wife was a former drug addict, although she’s been clean for the past 8 years. They have two children together, and the thought of drugs wasn’t an easy feeling. It could be argued that the thought of guns wasn’t an easy feeling, but hey you have to draw your lines somewhere.

Scott was against drugs because although he’s never had any personal experience with hard drugs, his father was (maybe still is, he doesn’t know) an alcoholic and he knows how destructive addictions can be. He didn’t want to be in the businesses of supplying people with their addictions.

With the agreement, the club work out who’s going to talk to Lumpy and nail down the deal, all while making sure that no government agency sees them, and the meeting is over.

Scott, Opie, and Piney all walk out of that Church meeting less than impressed, but that’s the way some of these meetings go.

Derek walks out, scrubbing his beard, sighing. He needs a drink, a strong one, but he doesn’t feel like dealing with any of the other members. These kinds of meetings where there are disagreements are always the hardest. He’s always the one that has to get in the middle, ease the tension between Peter and whoever disagrees with him on that particular day. It’s not easy, it never is.

Instead of having the drink that he wants, he decides to go for a long ride on his own, just him, his bike and the open road. Nothing is more relaxing or able to clear his head then when he’s on his motorcycle.

**

It’s nearing evening, but still quite bright and an exceptionally warm day this early in the spring, when Stiles drives back into Beacon Hills. He’s been driving for the past 5 hours, back from Los Angeles where he had a meeting with the company he’s been working with. He has the windows down, his left hand out the window, and the radio on loud to keep him awake and alert.

He loves road trips, loves being on the open road, but he hates being alone.

He’s reminded of the times he used to sit on the back of Derek’s bikes and they’d just drive and drives on the open roads, with no set destination in mind. They’d stop at some seedy diner, order whatever looked the safest to eat on the menu, then they’d be back on the road. They’d stop at various road side attractions just for the fun of it. They stopped at places like ‘Santa Cruz Mystery Spot,’ and the ‘Folsom Prison Museum,’ Stiles had even joked that they might throw Derek’s badass in jail. It had all been silly, so childish, so tourist-y in their own State, but they had fun and that’s what mattered the most.

Stiles would love nothing more than to go home and fall into bed and sleep through the evening and night, and wake up refreshed, but he knows he has no food in the fridge and he’s starving.

He pulls into one of the two diner’s in Beacon Hills, parks his car out front. As he’s getting out of the car, he hears the purr of a motorcycle driving down the main street. His eyes are automatically drawn to where the noise is coming from, just to see who it is, when he realises it’s Derek’s bike. He’s on his own, helmet and sunglasses on, speeding towards the outskirts of town.

Derek probably doesn’t even notice Stiles, but Stiles couldn’t miss him.

He stands there like a loser, staring at the back of the motorcycle, for longer than he can actually see it, before his stomach rumbles again, making his hunger known. That snaps Stiles back to attention, as he locks his car door and heads towards the diner, where a burger, fries, and milkshake are calling his name.

Stiles his halfway through his apple pie when he sees someone taking the seat beside him at the counter.

“Ah, I’ve heard rumours that you’ve been back.”

Stiles snorts, shovelling more apple pie into his mouth. He turns his bum on the stool so that he can face the person better.

“Surprised I haven’t seen you around the clubhouse actually. How are you Deaton?” Stiles asks.

Deaton laughs, shaking his head no, when the waiter walks up to him from behind the counter, ready to take his order. “Why would I ever be around the clubhouse? I do have my own business,” Deaton answers, referring to the veterinary clinic that he owns and runs.

Deaton may help with the MC but that doesn’t mean everyone else is privy to that information. It’s how they’ve been so successful at everything they’ve done.

“Ah right, how could I forget?” Stiles rolls his eyes.

“I suppose I should be asking how you are?” Deaton asks.

Stiles nods his head, polishing off his milkshake. “Good, new job, just got back from LA.”

“And yet you live in Beacon Hills?”

Stiles shrugs.

“I don’t need to actually be in LA all that often, besides I’m not really the Hollywood type, am I?”

Deaton smiles.

“No, you’re really not. Well, I suppose I’ll be seeing you around Mr Stilinski.”

“Deaton,” Stiles nods.

**

Stiles and Derek don’t see much of each other during the day, but on most evenings and on the weekends they do see each other when they’re both at the bar, or the few times that Stiles ended up at the clubhouse, drinking with the MC. Other than that, Stiles has spent most of his time hanging out with Scott again, mending their friendship, and Derek has been busy with work and the club.

Both Stiles and Derek have stuck to the strictly sex, with no feelings, and only being friends. So far, it’s been working well for them, they both get an orgasm out of it, then go on their merry way.

**

It’s one of those nights that everyone ends up back at the club house, smoking, drinking, loud music, and the occasional game of pool. Not to mention the amount of making out, and what can only be described as dry humping over every available surface of the main room in the clubhouse, despite the fact that there are numerous rooms in the back, with actual beds, and privacy.

Tommy had no trouble picking up a woman, despite the Glasgow smile scar he has on his face, the woman is a sucker for a Scottish accent. Erica and Boyd are making out, sprawled across the pool table, hindering anyone else from racking up and starting a game. Scott is kissing this new girl that he met at the bar, but it doesn’t seem like he has plans to take it any further than that.

Opie has his wife on his lap, a bottle of beer in his free hand as they laugh, drink, and kiss every few minutes. Piney is at the bar, with a glass of scotch in front of him, the bottle beside the glass. Minnie is making out with the girl she met at the bar, though she suspects she’s not even a lesbian or bisexual, maybe just experimenting — but it’s not like she cares — she’s not looking for a relationship.

Peter is off, fucking some random person he met the minute he walked into the bar, no one has seen him since.

Stiles is busy talking to Danny, throwing back shot after shot, when he feels someone press up against his back, hot breath against the back of his neck, that suddenly captures all of Stiles’ attention.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks, slamming the shot glass back on the bar top.

Danny just looks between Stiles and Derek, before laughing and pouring himself another shot.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Stiles’ breath catches in his throat, as warm, moist lips make it’s way to the side of his neck. Stiles automatically drops his head to rest on Derek’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut as he gives into the feeling.

Derek moves closer, the front of his pants pressing into the small of Stiles’ back, and he can distinctly feel a bulge.

Stiles makes the mistake of opening his eyes, turning his head slightly to look at Derek. Stiles can only describe that looks as pure, unadulterated desire. Well, maybe alcohol has a bit of an effect but Stiles is hardly one to complain. Derek’s gaze is on Stiles, and only him, Stiles could almost think they’re the only ones in the room.

But then Stiles is reminded that they’re not alone, and that bulge in Derek’s pants is getting larger and pretty soon Stiles isn’t going to be able to hide his own erection — and he’s rather not have everyone see that, thank you very much.

“Derek,” Stiles groans, tearing his gaze away from Derek, before he’s tempted to just drop his pants right there, not caring who sees.

Derek must get it, because he grabs the bottle of vodka that Stiles and Danny were drinking from with one hand, and tugging on the belt loops of Stiles’ jeans with the other. Stiles clumsily spills off of the bar stool and follows after Derek, towards the rooms in the back.

They both hear the distinct whistle of approval from Danny.

Stiles can’t help the giggle that erupts, while hiccuping at the same time. He really is becoming one of those groupies that loves to fuck a guy with a motorcycle and in a motorcycle club, in their clubhouse. He remembers the stories Derek used to tell him, that Derek heard from his uncle Peter. At that minute though, Stiles doesn’t care. Sex is sex, and sex with Derek is fan-fucking-tastic.

When they enter Derek’s bedroom at the clubhouse, Stiles makes quick work of his shirt, unbuttoning it and tossing it to the ground, and lifting his undershirt off as well. He’s unbuckling his belt buckle when he falters, feeling that warm breath against his neck again, the warm heat form Derek’s body radiating towards his back — but Derek’s not yet actually touching him.

Stiles tries to sway backwards, make contact with Derek, but Derek steps backwards at the same time that Stiles leans backwards, so they’re still not touching. Stiles whimpers, not even bothering to try and pretend he didn’t.

“Pants off.”

Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice. His belt buckle soon joins his other clothes on the floor before he’s getting out of his sneakers, and out of his jeans and boxers in a matter of seconds.

He shivers, he can feel Derek at his back, but he can’t see him, can’t feel him. And although Derek hasn’t said anything, Stiles just somehow knows not to turn around, maybe it’s old instincts coming to the surface, having done this dance so many times before, even if it was years ago.

He knows, even without turning around that Derek has a perfect set of abs under his shirt, firm, muscular thighs, with a muscular back to match. Stiles isn’t fat, far from it, but he’s still farther away from the fitness that he used to be, back when he was a cop. He hardly needs to go to the gym or stay in shape as much as he used to. He knows he has a scar on his shoulder, the bullet going right through, blemished skin on both sides. Not something he likes to look at, or think about often.

He nearly startles when warm, light fingers touch the scar on the back of his shoulder.

“I uh-,” Stiles starts, not sure what he was actually going to say, something along the lines of: ‘they haven’t actually spoken about him getting shot before.’

Derek shushes him, under his breath, but Stiles hears him all the same, and instantly shuts his mouth. The next thing Stiles knows, he’s being pushed towards the bed, Derek’s large hand, pushing him in between his shoulders, and Stiles takes the last few steps towards the large, inviting bed.

Derek gives him one last nudge and Stiles, gets on the bed, on his hands and knees. He moves higher up on the bed before letting his shoulders drop to the mattress, his legs spread apart with enough room for Derek to get behind him.

Stiles can’t help the jolt that he feels, as a warm, room-temperature liquid starts dripping onto his lower back, the way his back is bowed, the liquid starts to run up his spine, before he feels the drag of a tongue trying to lick up as much liquid as Derek can.

The sounds that Stiles makes, embarrassingly loud — and he can be thankful that even though they’re in a very public place — at least the bedrooms are soundproof. The thought of Derek pouring vodka on the small of his back, licking it up, as if they were on spring break doing body shots, shouldn’t be so arousing. But Derek could pretty much do anything in that moment and Stiles would find it entirely arousing. Stiles’ mind wanders to doing body shots off of Derek, running his tongue over this hard abs, letting the vodka dribble down, lower. That only makes Stiles moan louder and he can hear Derek chuckle behind him.

“I think this is the only way I’ll take my alcohol from now on,” Derek rumbles, his lips now vibrating against the back of Stiles’ neck.

Stiles hums his appreciation, so lost in arousal and want. He can feel the roughness of Derek’s jeans against his ass, and he pushes back against Derek’s front, trying to imply: ‘get naked.’

Derek apparently gets the hint, nipping at Stiles’ neck before he’s up and off the bed and Stiles can hear the rustle of clothes being removed.

In the next second, Derek’s back on the bed and Stiles barely has a moment to register what’s going on before he feels Derek pulling his ass cheeks apart, and even though they’ve done this before, Stiles’ cheeks still turn red. He barely has time to be embarrassed about it, before Derek’s tongue is running over Stiles’ hole, alternating between running and flicking over it.

Stiles mewls, biting on the duvet, pushing his ass back into Derek’s face, not even ashamed.

“Derek,” Stiles whines, after what feels like hours of Derek’s tongue on his ass.

Derek pulls back a little, breathing hard as if he’s just run a marathon. He pushes his thumb to Stiles’ hole, pushing in gently, watching as the tip disappears into Stiles, listening to Stiles’ hitch of breath.

Derek isn’t in the overly teasing mood, he knows when Stiles says his name like that, it means ‘get on with it,’ because Derek never wants Stiles to touch himself until after Derek’s already in Stiles. Derek relents, letting go of Stiles’ ass — giving it a quick smack which has Stiles squeaking, and then huffing, pretending to be irritated with Derek — as Derek grabs the bottle of lube from the bedside drawer.

Derek takes little time in lubing up his own cock, relief washing through him as his own cock finally gets the attention that it’s wanted for the better part of the whole night.

Derek has one hand on his cock, the other guiding himself into Stiles, slowly, before he’s fully in.

“Oh god,” Stiles groans, pushing himself closer to Derek, rearranging his head so it’s resting against his forearm.

Stiles holds his breath, as he feels Derek pulling out, the breath being knocked out of him when Derek snaps his hips forward, his cock burying itself deep inside of Stiles. Stiles is shaking all over, his breath coming in fast, as he feels Derek’s hips meeting his ass, Derek’s balls slapping on his skin.

Between the noises Stiles is making, the skin-on-skin noises, little grunts coming from Derek and the smell of sex, it all becomes unbearable, Stiles needs to come, and he needs to come soon.

“Derek,” Stiles pleads.

“Stiles,” Derek groans, dropping his forehead on Stiles’ shoulder, his whole body blanketing Stiles’ back.

The heat that they’re making, the sweat mingling between them is just so dirty, and it turns Stiles on even more.

Derek starts to slowly grind his hips, nipping at Stiles’ shoulder before biting down gently — on his uninjured shoulder — as Derek empties himself in Stiles. Derek’s teeth on Stiles’ shoulder do little to hide the groan that erupts from the base of his throat.

As soon as Derek finishes emptying himself in Stiles, he hauls himself and Stiles up, so that they’re both on their knees and Derek wraps his hand around Stiles’ dark red cock, pre come oozing out at the tip.

Derek rubs his thumb over the head, smearing the pre come along Stiles’ cock, before he fists it and starts to pump it at an unrelenting speed, tight grip. Stiles’ head slumps backwards onto Derek’s shoulder, as he groans, his ass clenching around the cock still buried in him.

It takes a few strokes before he spurts come, Derek still pumping him, coaxing the last of Stiles’ come out, ribbons of come landing onto of the duvet. Derek removes his hand when he feels Stiles start to shake from over stimulation, and Stiles flops down on to the bed, trying to avoid his own come, Derek’s cock slipping from his ass.

“Fuck,” is all Stiles manages to say, as his eyes start to droop.

Derek huffs, trying to move Stiles so that he can strip the bed of the duvet, although Stiles is all solid, sleep-ridden limbs, not helping Derek at all.

“Should’ve used a condom,” Stiles makes a face as he buries his head in the pillow once Derek’s finally gotten rid of the duvet.

They probably should have, just for clean up reasons, but Derek must admit he gets a sense of satisfaction of seeing his come dribbling out of Stiles’ ass. It’s not a sight he normally gets to see with his other one night stands — but with Stiles, there’s an understanding, and it’s satisfying.

Derek hums under his breath, like he agrees with Stiles (he doesn’t) before he starts to doze of, his arm around Stiles’ back.

When Stiles wakes up, it doesn’t take him long to realise that the other half of the bed is empty, and that he’s cold. Derek had kept him warm throughout the night, his body always unusually warm, but now that he’s on his own, and the duvet is on the ground, he shivers.

He rolls on to his back, stretching his arms over his head, and stretches his legs. He feels a small twinge in his lower back that reminds him that he had sex last night, pretty fantastic sex at that. Not that he needed the reminding, considering he can feel dry come around his ass, and the room still smells of sex.

He gets out of bed, the beginning of a small hangover making itself known in the front of his head, that a nice hot cup of coffee will fix, getting into his clothes from last night. He’s in definite need of a shower, but there’s no use in showering at the club, since he won’t have any clean underwear to put on.

Stiles pokes his head out into the hallway of the clubhouse, all the other bedroom doors closed, and it seems quite enough. He steps out into the hallway, heading in the direction of the main room of the clubhouse.

He sees Tommy lying on top of the pool table, a half naked brunette, with a thong on and no bra half on top of him, half on the pool table, both passed out drunk. Chucky, a human, and not a member of the MC, yet somehow works for them, doing little bits around the clubhouse — he owes them his life or something — is restocking the empty shelves with new bottles of alcohol.

“Morning,” Chucky beams at Stiles, a little too chipper for this early in the morning — how early is it anyway? — especially with the hangover.

Stiles only nods his head.

Chucky laughs, nodding in the direction of the kitchen. “There’s a fresh pot of coffee if you need some.”

Stiles looks in the direction of the kitchen, the smell of something freshly cooked, most likely eggs, bacon and coffee wafting in his direction. He sees Derek emerge from the kitchen, a plate in his hand, a fork shovelling scrambled eggs in his mouth like a starved man.

Derek looks up from his plate to see Stiles, and he stops chewing. “Did you want breakfast?” Derek asks, as he takes a bite of bacon.

Yes, Stiles would like bacon, but he doesn’t think you’re supposed to actually have breakfast with your one night stand.

“If so, kitchen is there, you know how to cook,” Derek finishes, walking towards the bar, sitting down on one of the stools, a small smirk on his face as he walks past Stiles.

“Ha ha,” Stiles yawns, heading towards the exit. “Later.”

“Later,” Derek calls between mouthfuls of eggs and bacon.

**

Things have been going pretty well these past few days with the club, aside from the whole drug thing, which is still causing some tension. Derek met with Lumpy and finalised the deal to store the drugs at the laundromat in exchange for Lumpy’s protection from the LOAN members. Lumpy’s an old man, human, and seems like the type of person to honour his word — Derek doesn’t doubt that Deaton made the right choice in offering Lumpy as a front for their drug running.

They gang are back at the club, getting ready for their weekly meeting, mainly to talk about the release of Bobby from jail in a few weeks times — there’s definitely going to be a large party, with everyone beyond wasted in celebration. All of the club members have at one time or another spent time in jail. The wall outside of the meeting room in the clubhouse is lined with every members mugshot.

They’re halfway through the meeting, already decided that they’re all going to ride out to the prison, with one of the prospects driving a truck with Bobby’s motorcycle on the flatbed so that he can ride out of there with his own motorcycle — that’s what you miss when you’re in prison, well riding your motorcycle, and fucking women, and well drinking as well. Okay, there’s a lot you realise you miss when you’re in prison.

Peter’s about to bang the gavel to end the meeting, when there’s the shattering of glass that lines the top of the wall behind Peter. It takes half a second to realise that it’s bullets being shot through the window and the wall, when everyone hits the ground, hiding under the table, flipping there chairs over to try and stop the spray of bullets.

They hear the sound of motorcycles trying to speed away.

“Get out there,” Peter yells over all the chaos.

Derek lunges for the door, Boyd on his tail as they run out of the clubhouse just in time to see the tail-end of motorcycles speeding away. Boyd’s running towards his motorcycle, ready to jump on and speed after the shooters but Derek shouts at him to stop.

“It was the Mayans,” Derek nods his head towards the retreating motorcycles.

“So lets go after them,” Boyd shouts, lifting up his shirt to reveal the gun he’s hiding at the back of his jeans. They all carry weapons majority of the time. Derek typically has his gun and ka-bar knife that used to be his fathers when he was in the Navy, usually hanging off his belt.

Derek shakes his head.

“Lets deal with our club first, retaliation after.”

As much as Derek would love to get on his bike, go after the Mayans — one of their rival gangs — and deal with them properly, it’s the smart thing to do, dealing with their own club first. They have to make sure their members are safe first, make sure any stragglers that don’t sit around the table and were in the clubhouse were safe too, and no stray bullets hit anyone.

Derek and Boyd hear shouting from inside the clubhouse that has the two men running back inside the building. There are bullet holes along the far left side of the building, an uneven line, showing that it was a drive-by shooting.

“Call Lydia, now,” Piney barks to no one in particular.

Derek and Boyd head straight for the meeting room, and find Jackson sprawled on the ground, a bullet wound in his side. Fortunately, it doesn’t seem to be laced with wolfsbane — so not intended to kill then, just send a message — but it still needs some attention.

Lillian has her phone out, dialling Lydia.

Isaac is on the ground beside Jackson, putting pressure on the wound while everyone else is trying to figure out what to do.

“The cops are going to be all over us,” Peter declares. “We need to get Jackson out of here, get him to the cabin if he can make it, have Lydia meet him there.”

Scott and Isaac haul Jackson up, Jackson wincing in pain, swearing under his breath. They carry him out the door and to one of the vans, putting him in the back, and speeding away before the police get there.

“Who was it?” Peter demands, now that his attention is back to all the damage caused.

“Mayans,” Boyd answers.

“It’s about the drugs, has to be,” Opie shakes his head.

The mayans are known for their own drug dealing within the area, just outside of Beacon Hills. They can’t be impressed that the WOW MC are running drugs, in direct competition with the Mayans — even though the MC don’t actually deal the drugs.

“Now is not the time,” Peter growls, not interested in hearing Opie and Piney talk about how the drug running was a stupid idea.

“Peter’s right,” Derek nods his head, surveying the bullet holes, and broken glass. “The police are going to be here any minute, we need to deal with them, and then worry about retaliation and what we’re going to do next later.”

**

It’s hours later that Derek finds himself back at his apartment. It took them a little while to try and explain to the police that it was just a random shooting and not a targeted attack — it took a lot of convincing, and Derek isn’t even positive that they do believe him. The last thing they need is even more heat from the local PD and a local Sheriff trying to play the big man around town.

Lydia was able to get someone to cover her shift at the hospital, rushing to the cabin to mend Jackson up, and from what Derek heard from Isaac and Scott, she was yelling all the while she was fixing Jackson up. Derek’s glad he’s not the one at the cabin, otherwise he would have had to face Lydia’s wrath and he’s had a stressful enough day as it is.

Derek’s sprawled out on the couch, with the lights in his apartment still off — too lazy to even do that — and the only light coming through is from the floor to ceiling windows in his apartment from other street lights and passing cars. He’s just dozing off, still in dirty clothes from cleaning up the clubhouse when there’s a knock on his door.

He groans, pushing himself up and off the couch and walking towards the door. He slides the thick steel door to the side, opening it up, hand on his knife just in case — though he doesn’t feel there’s a threat. When the door is fully open, he sees one Stiles Stilinski.

“Ah, you’re alive then,” Stiles raises an eyebrow, pushing past Derek and walking farther into the apartment. His eyes scan the large, open-spaced, sparsely furnished apartment, and not much has really changed, even after all these years.

“Stiles, what are you doing here?”

“Funny thing, I heard all around town that the clubhouse got shot up, even heard the police sirens. Then Lydia calls me, tells me she has to bail on our dinner because she’s busy stitching Jackson up. I put two and two together, realised it wasn’t some sick joke.”

“Do you have a point?” Derek sighs, sliding the apartment door shut — it doesn’t seem like Stiles is going to be leaving anytime soon, even though Derek really wants to be alone.

“A simple text saying: ‘hey I’m not dead, don’t worry about me,’ would have been nice,” Stiles wheels around.

Derek just raises his eyebrow in response, walking towards the couch and sitting down again.

“You’re such as asshole,” Stiles huffs, sitting down in the single leather armchair.

“Lydia shouldn’t have even told you she was mending Jackson, that’s club business.”

Stiles scoffs, putting his feet up on the coffee table because he know it’ll piss Derek off. For a supposed bad boy, criminal in a motorcycle gang, Derek keeps a clean apartment, like spotless clean.

“Please, Lydia wouldn’t just bail on me to hangout with Jackson if nothing was wrong. That and I heard about the shooting, I could have put that together myself.”

Derek closes his eyes, leaning his head back on the back of the couch.

“Well, you see I’m alive, you can leave now.”

“You look like shit,” Stiles says instead.

“If that’s you trying to get in my pants, not tonight.”

“I’m not that tactless,” Stiles scoffs again. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Why?”

“Why don’t I go pick us up some burgers and fries?”

Derek opens his eyes and gives Stiles his level best stare.

Stiles puts his hands up in surrender.

“Woah, totally in a platonic, non date, not trying to get in your pants meal. You frankly really do look like shit, and like you’re about to fall asleep any minute. I’ll grab us some food, eat, and I’ll bail. I’ll even just drop your food off and eat mine in my car like a loser if that’ll make you happy.”

Derek just closes his eyes again, and lays his head back against the back of the couch. So, not a flat out ‘no,’ Stiles can deal with that.

“I knew you couldn’t resist Lynette’s burgers!”

Twenty minutes later and Derek is napping on the couch when Stiles is banging on the front door again. Derek would be pissed, but he remembers the promise of Lynette’s burgers, and he really can’t resist. So he grudgingly gets off the couch and lets Stiles back in. Stiles plops down on the couch beside Derek, handing Derek his burger and fries, grabbing a beer from the fridge for Derek — because clearly Derek could use it — and Stiles just has a Coke.

“Thanks,” Derek mumbles as he takes the first bite from his burger, and fuck is it good.

“No problem-o,” Stiles says munching one some fries as he turns on Derek’s TV, putting it on some family comedy.

They mostly eat in silence, but Stiles is never one to keep his mouth shut, and curiosity always wins out.

“So, what was it about today?” Stiles asks, biting on the straw from his drink. His eyes are still focused on the TV and he refuses to look at Derek, acting nonchalant.

“Rival gang,” Derek says after a few minutes of silence, and it’s more of an answer than Stiles even thought he was going to get.

“Guns?”

There’s an even longer pause.

“Drugs. Mayans.”

Stiles nods his head, finally looking at Derek, who’s staring right back at him.

“Ah well, you guys will sort it all out.”

“Since when have you been interested in club business?” Derek asks, not taking his eyes off of Stiles.

Stiles shrugs his shoulders, wadding up the burger wrapper and tossing it into the bag the food came in.

“It’s not club business I care about, I just don’t want any of you ending up dead.”

“Well we’re all still in tact.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

They fall into silence for a little while longer, finishing off the comedy show — neither of them laughing at all though.

Stiles looks at his watch he sees it’s past 10:30PM, and Derek looks exhausted. He gathers up the garbage and empty beer bottle, bringing it to the kitchen, throwing out the garbage, and tossing the beer bottle in the recycling.

“I better get going,” Stiles says, hovering by the front door. “Glad you’re not dead.”

Derek smirks as he gets up off the couch, heading towards the door.

“Thanks.”

Derek locks up the apartment once Stiles leaves, turns off the TV and falls into bed. He’ll worry about showering in the morning.

**

By the time Stiles gets back to his apartment, it’s just past 11PM, and he hasn’t even taken off his jacket or shoes before he gets out his phone and dials the number listed under ‘pizza,’ waiting for someone to pick up.

“This is Stiles Stilinski, calling for Wolfsbane.”

“Password?”

“Romeo, Alpha, Tango.”

“Confirmed. What happened today?” the woman asks, eagerly. Obviously, she’s heard about the drive by shooting already.

“Drive by shooting,” Stiles answers rather unhelpfully. “Rival gang, the Mayans.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Not gravely no.”

“Hmm,” the woman says. “Mayans, they deal drugs out of Stockton. A drug rivalry going on then? That’s hardly news, but WOW MC don’t even deal drugs, only mule. Unless that’s changed?”

“Not that I know of.”

“That’s not very helpful Mr Stilinski.”

“Listen, I don’t know what you want me to say, I’m telling you everything I know. Mayans initiated a shoot out, as far as I know the MC still only mule drugs. Mayans are probably just getting territorial.”

“Well, it still gives us something. Keep me apprised of any new news you hear of.”

“Got it,” Stiles sighs, hearing the phone click dead.

He doesn't fall asleep easily that night

**

Dealing with the Mayans isn’t as easy as reciprocating with another drive by shooting, and Peter knows that. It’s going to take a little more finesse and strategic planning, of course the end result will be just as bloody and messy, but that’s not the problem. The problem is making sure they don’t get caught, don’t draw the attention of local PD.

The mayans are meant to be having an evening BBQ picnic at one of the local parks in the next town over a few days after the shooting, and Peter plans to intercept some of the mayans before they get there, and kill them.

He has Erica get a minivan with no licence plates that’ll come back to bite them in the ass, and makes her get dressed up in her best soccer mom outfit (a feat she is not at all pleased about, but she does it nonetheless, and by the end of it she looks like a completely new person). The plan is for her to drive the van behind the Mayans at a red light, and get out of the car, yelling that she thinks her baby is choking and she needs help.

The Mayans may be hard-core gangsters but they’re not going to let a baby die, and while one or two of them get off their bikes to help, they’ll all be distracted enough. That’s when Derek, Boyd, Scott, and Opie will ambush and kill them. Isaac and Tommy will be driving another unmarked car, trailing behind to be the lookout.

All in all, it goes well, they were able to stop at a quiet intersection with very few witnesses, and any that did see aren’t stupid enough to talk. Derek, Boyd, Scott, and Opie quickly speed up on the Mayans — after Erica had thoroughly distracted them with her ‘fake’ choking baby — and shot four of the top Mayans right where the stood, silencers on their guns. There was no yells or shouts, the Mayans just looked shocked, some reached for the weapons and got some shots off, but none that made contact with any of the WOW MC members.

After the four Mayans were dead, Derek, Boyd, Scott, and Opie speed off on their motorcycles in the opposite direction, Erica gets calmly back in her car (after taking out her soccer mom ponytail and headband, and she can’t wait to get out of this god awful mom jeans) and drives away, not speeding so as not to draw any attention to herself. Isaac and Tommy do the same, pretending they’re just driving around aimlessly.

They all report back at the clubhouse, tell Peter that it all went off without a hitch, and even though the cops will undoubtedly come knocking on their door, they won’t get caught. No one in that part of town is going to talk, not unless they want to end up dead.

There will also undoubtedly be Mayan blowback, some of the others wanting revenge, but that’s a matter to deal with on another day, they take it one day at a time.

When their impromptu meeting is over, Derek is feeling all keyed up, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, and he feels as if he’s high. He knows he probably shouldn’t get such a thrill out of killing — what would his mother think? — but the Mayans had it coming, it’s not like he kills innocent people. Before he knows it, he’s getting his phone out of his pocket and texting Stiles to meet him at the clubhouse.

Stiles is there within half an hour, being dragged to the familiar bedroom at the clubhouse.

And if Stiles notices the blood splatters on Derek’s jeans and shirt as he undresses Derek, he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even give it a second glance. Derek’s cock is in Stiles’ mouth in a matter of seconds, and Derek blanks out after that, fucks the adrenaline out of his system, fucking Stiles’ mouth and then fucking Stiles into the bed in earnest, enough to leave bruises. But Stiles doesn’t complain, just moans he wants more, harder, faster, and Derek is more than happy to oblige.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings & additional tags:  
> 1\. The club execute a hit on a rival gang, and obviously feel no remorse. Instead, it gets Derek in the mood.  
> 2\. Stiles seems to notice that Derek's done something illegal, but doesn't question it.  
> That's pretty much it so far.
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://foughtthewolvesofpatience.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the notes at the end for chapter warnings.

“What can you tell me about Opie Winston?” Stahl asks on Stiles’ next call.

“Not much. Derek’s age, they went to school together, they used to be inseparable.”

“Used to?” Stahl quickly catches on.

Stiles sighs, pacing back and forth in his kitchen, waiting for his stupid TV dinner to heat up. “Well, you do know Opie just got out of prison, I’m sure your records show that. They haven’t seen much of each other in the past five years.”

“Aren’t they closer now though, now that he’s out?”

“I see him around the clubhouse, they’ll have a drink together, but they’re not attached at the hip or anything. Opie spends a lot more time with his wife and kids these days.”

“Hmm,” Stahl says.

“Care to fill me in?”

“Bobby Munson, he’ll be released from prison in about a weeks time, only been in about six months.”

“Okay?” Stiles asks.

“He’ll be eager to get back into club business, he might slip up, keep an eye on him, give me anything I might be able to use.”

Stiles mutters under his breath, pulling the hot TV dinner out of the microwave, peeling back the cellophane to see if it’s cooked all the way through.

“Don’t you think that’s why I’ve been doing all these weeks?”

“I just want to make sure you’re focused on the task at hand.”

“I am.”

Stiles ends the call, grabbing a bottle of beer and his TV dinner, putting on the highlights from the latest baseball game just to have some background noise.

**

Bobby Munson, the MC’S Treasurer Secretary, meaning he keeps track of all the finances and what the club earns, is paroled from prison on a sunny, warm Friday afternoon. He’d landed himself in prison after a bar fight, and getting caught while he was still on parole. The prison was overcrowded as it was, and despite the fact that they still think he’s a hardened criminal, there are worse criminals already in there that they can’t release.

The 13 members of the MC and two of the prospects, Liam and Filthy Phillip all meet Bobby outside of the prison. The MC members are on their motorcycles, Liam and Phillip are unloading Bobby’s bike from the flatbed of the truck.

They cheer and whoop when Bobby walks through the gates, escorted by two security prison guards. The guards look less than impressed, hands hovering over their weapons like they’re going to need to use them at any minute.

Peter gets off of his bike and grabs Bobby’s leather cut from the truck, handing it to Bobby.

Bobby puts it on with pride, none of the members go anywhere without their cut on — police hate it, say it’s the same as gang colours, but that never stops the MC — and brings Peter into a big hug.

“Good to have you back,” Peter grins when he steps away from the hug.

“It’s good to see all your ugly faces,” Bobby smiles. “Though I would love to see some women right now.”

“Patience dear Bobby,” Peter grins.

The rest of the MC nod their head at Bobby, before they all rev their bikes up and leave the prison in the dust.

Saying the party that night is large is the understatement of the year. All the members from WOW MC are there along with the prospects, members of the pack, some locals who hangout with the club, and some members from other WOW MC charters. There are drinks flowing just outside of the clubhouse since it’s such a nice evening, music blaring, and food being cooked on an open fire pit bbq.

Much to Bobby’s delight, there’s an abundance of woman around as well. It’s not hard to find women who love a man that rides a motorcycle, and women who will take the chance to fuck any member of a motorcycle gang. Bobby is pussy-deep in one woman or another, and most of the club don’t even see him, but that doesn’t stop them from enjoying their night.

Stiles shows up halfway through the night with Lydia on his arm, automatically being handed a beer bottle from Scott that he gladly accepts.

Stiles whistles, taking a look at all the people milling about outside the clubhouse and mechanic shop. There are people he’s never even seen before. “Ever get overwhelmed?” he asks Lydia.

“All the time,” she admits, declining to take a beer, turning her nose up at it.

“Not really your thing?” Stiles snickers, nodding towards the woman dressed in scantily clad clothes, draping themselves off of any MC member they can find.

“Just because I’m considered an old lady,” Lydia starts, her mouth in a frown — she hates the term old lady that’s applied to woman dating a member of the club — “doesn’t mean I enjoy hanging out with these other women. Half of them are in porn, which I don’t have a problem with, honestly. But I don’t need to hear about urinary tract infections just because I’m a doctor, and trying to get the perfect come shot every second of my life.”

“A doctor hanging out with a group of porn stars, that sounds like a porno in itself,” Stiles snorts.

“Oh shut it Stilinski,” Lydia shoves Stiles playfully, before she’s off and looking for Jackson. Lydia may not have a problem with these girls who are porn stars — whatever makes them happy — but she will not be happy to see a porn star draping themselves all over Jackson, that’s where she puts her foot down.

Stiles gets swept in the crowd with Scott, Danny, and Isaac. Stiles finally gets to meet the woman he saw Scott making out with at the clubhouse a few weeks ago, her name is Kira. She’s a supernatural as well, but her family aren’t part of any group or gang, but so far she seems fine being in the crowd with a bunch of outlaws. Stiles kinda fe  
els bad for her, because when shit gets bad, it gets really bad. But she seems happy enough and Stiles isn’t about to rain on her parade.

It doesn’t take them long to set up a game of beer pong like they’re still freshmen in university, Scott and Kira on one team, Stiles and Isaac on another with Danny being the mediator. Stiles and Isaac may like to bicker all the time, pretend to fight for the attentions of Scott (neither of them will admit to it not being pretend) but they make the best beer pong team around, they’re pretty much undefeated and tonight is no exception.

Soon enough Scott and Kira are pissed drunk, the specially infused beer going straight to their heads, and it doesn’t take them long to be all over each other. Yeah it looks like Scott may have gotten past the ‘only making out’ phase, if all the groping going on is anything to go by.

Which, Stiles gets, at a party like this, with a lot of werewolves and hormones flying around, everyone hooking up with everyone, it’s understandable sex is on pretty much everyone’s mind. Stiles’ included.

Speaking of sex, Stiles turns away from where Scott and Kira are making out with each other —Danny already talking to an insanely gorgeous man covered in tattoos, and Isaac has already bailed somewhere — and looks for Derek. His eyes scan the crowd, but it’s not exactly easy to find him when it’s so busy and getting darker.

Stiles takes a few steps, walking in the direction of Boyd and Erica, because they’ll most likely know where Derek is, when he’s stopped, someone stepping in front of him. Stiles’ heart skips a beat — and not the good kind — before he tells himself to get it under control. He’s not the biggest fan of Peter, because he’s just creepy, and weird, and untrustworthy. Not that Stiles would ever say any of that to Peter’s face.

“Stiles,” Peter drawls, clearly a little intoxicated.

“Peter.”

“You’ve hardly said two words to me since you’ve been back.”

“I do mostly only see you when everyone is out drinking, and by then you already have a man or woman on your arm, sometimes both, I hardly want to interrupt that,” Stiles answers a tad sarcastically.

Peter only chuckles at that, resting his hand on Stiles’ shoulder — the injured one — squeezing just on the side of painful.

“I’d be lying if I said I missed you.”

“Ditto,” Stiles fake smiles, moving to step away.

“You always had one foot in, and one foot out when it came to the MC. I never knew where you stood. Where do you stand?” Peter asks, his half-drunk eyes focusing intently on Stiles.

“I stand where I always stood, on Derek’s side. Not the MC’s side.”

“Ah until you run away again, correct?”

Stiles tears himself away from Peter’s hand, and walks away. He really doesn’t need to deal with a drunk Peter saying things he already knows. He and Derek aren’t actually together, he doesn’t know if he’s sticking around, but none of that is Peter’s business. Whatever it is Stiles and Derek are doing, it’s their business and when one of them wants out, they’ll say so.

Stiles makes his way towards Boyd and Erica, a relieved smile on his face when they wave him over. Boyd and Erica, Stiles can deal with, they’re a piece of cake compared to Peter, yes even Erica is a piece of cake compared to Peter.

“Seen Derek?” Stiles asks, plopping down on the bench of the wooden picnic table. Boyd is sitting on the table, his feet resting on the bench, Erica sitting in the bench, in-between Boyd’s legs, facing the crowd.

“Wow, hello there Stiles,” Erica smacks Stiles on his thigh.

“Hello Erica, you beautiful, magnificent woman,” Stiles beams, patting Erica’s knee.

“Damn straight,” Erica shakes her head, her curls bouncing. Boyd laughs, running his hands over Erica’s shoulders.

“But lets be real, I give it about five minutes before you two sneak off somewhere to fuck, I’d rather not be around.”

Erica fake gasps, pretending to be scandalised while it’s Boyd’s turn to say, “damn straight.”

Stiles just shrugs, laughing. “So, Derek?”

“Where do you think?” Boyd answers Stiles’ question with a question, giving him a pointed look.

Stiles’ eyes immediately draw to the clubhouse building, looking at the roof. He remembers that’s where Derek always used to go to get away.

“Bingo,” Boyd answers.

Stiles gets up, saying his goodbye, fist-pumping Boyd, and kissing Erica on the cheek, before he makes his way towards the ladder on the side of the building that leads to the roof. The last thing he should probably be trying to do is climb a ladder when he’s on the wrong side of tipsy, but whatever.

Unsurprisingly, Derek is sitting on one of the garden chairs, his feet up on the ledge of the building, looking at the spectacle of a party going on down below. It’s a little chillier, being so high up, but Stiles ignores that in favour of walking towards the empty garden chair beside Derek. As he passes Derek, he squeezes Derek’s shoulder.

There’s a cooler with ice and beer in-between the two chairs, and Stiles helps himself to one. As Stiles is popping the top off the bottle, Derek speaks.

“What did Peter want?”

“So that’s why you like it up here,” Stiles jokes, tossing the bottle top back into the cooler. “You get to spy on everyone.”

Derek just gives Stiles a look, and Stiles shakes his head smiling.

“You know, the usual, intimidation with a mix of creepiness. Don’t worry, he didn’t hit on me, if that’s why you’re worried.”

Derek’s only response is a snort. Bitch.

“Not in the party mood?” Stiles asks, mirroring Derek’s posture, putting his feet up on the ledge.

“If I have to hear one more stupid porn joke, I might kill someone,” Derek mutters.

“Oh man, I have got to hear this,” Stiles says a little too happily.

When Derek doesn’t say anything, Stiles groans.

“Don’t leave me hanging man, tell me!” He flicks some off the condensation off of his beer bottle at Derek, it landing on his face.

Derek, for his part, rolls his eyes and then speaks.

“How can you tell when a mechanic just had sex?”

Stiles shrugs, waiting for Derek to answer.

“One of his fingers are clean,” Derek says deadpan.

Stiles bursts out laughing.

“Dude that’s fucking gross.”

“Tell me about it,” Derek sighs.

“Considering we had sex in a supply closet while you were working and covered in oil though, I guess we can’t say anything.”

Derek hums his agreement, before he straightens up in his chair. He moves so suddenly that it draws Stiles’ attention. Good, that’s what Derek wants.

Derek spreads his legs further apart on the fake grass on the roof, his hand moving to his jeans, undoing the button and unzipping his fly.

“Uh,” Stiles starts, clicking his mouth shut, staring.

Turnabout is a bitch apparently. Stiles ambushed Derek with sex in the supply room, Derek’s going to get him back on the roof of a building.

Derek continues on, pulling down his jeans and boxers. His cock is still soft, nestled in his dark curls, but it’s enough to get Stiles flushed. The blood trying to decide whether to go to his cheeks or his dick.

Stiles doesn’t have time to say anything, before Derek leans across his chair and the cooler, grabbing Stiles’ arm and pulling. Stiles nearly falls out of his chair, some beer spilling on the ground between them, before Stiles is up.

Derek gives a pointed look to Stiles’ jeans, and yeah Stiles knows what that means. He leaves his beer bottle forgotten on the ground, kicking his shoes off, getting his jeans and boxers off, leaving his shirt on. The minute his bottom half is stark naked, Derek makes a grab for his hand again, pulling Stiles on his lap on the small garden chair.

Stiles makes himself comfortable, straddling Derek so they’re face-to-face, their hardening cocks bumping into each other.

“Right here?” Stiles asks, his mouth inches from Derek’s.

“Uh-huh,” Derek says, his eyes moving down to Stiles’ lips. He looks at them for a second before leaning forward and kisses Stiles. He kisses hard and insistent, tugging on Stiles’ bottom lip. Derek relishes in the way that it makes Stiles groan and rock forward into him, their cocks making even more delicious contact.

Derek moves his mouth away from Stiles’ lips, and starts to run his lips up Stiles’ jaw. Stiles is only too happy to tilt his head to the side to give Derek better access.

“Pretty sure this is about as public as it’s gotten for us so far,” Stiles notes, thinking about the party going on just behind and below them.

“Problem?” Derek asks at the same time he brings Stiles’ earlobe in to his mouth.

And that makes Stiles blank the fuck out.

Stiles shuts his eyes and rocks his hips closer to Derek, his now hard cock bumping against Derek’s and then the soft fabric of Derek’s shirt. Both are equally delicious contact and Stiles could get off on either one, against Derek’s cock, or Derek’s shirt.

“Didn’t think so,” Derek mutters darkly, moving to lean back against the back of the chair, giving a bit of space between his and Stiles’ body. His eyes roam downwards to where their cocks are bumping against each other.

Stiles’ moves his hands to Derek’s shoulder, and tips his head down to let some spit drip down from his mouth on to their cocks. Derek bucks under Stiles, Derek’s hand instantly moving to wrap around both of their cocks.

“Yes, Derek, yes,” Stiles mutters, probably more to himself than to Derek.

“Do you think the others can hear us all the way down there?” Derek asks as his hand starts to pump both of their cocks.

“Ugh, uh,” and a bunch of other babbled words are all Stiles can get out. His eyes are glued to where Derek’s hand are working them both over. Stiles will be the first to admit that Derek’s hands are just magical. Whether Derek is jerking them off, fingering Stiles, his hand gripping Stiles’ hair, it’s just magical, and powerful, and a part — a large part — of that gets Stiles off.

“Up, turn around,” Derek bites, moving Stiles’ body off of his lap. Stiles stumbles back, barely regaining his footing, before Derek’s hands are on his hips, turning around and bringing Stiles back down onto his lap. Like this, Stiles’ back is to Derek’s front, Derek’s cock nestled between their bodies, and mostly importantly, Stiles has a view of the party going on down below.

“Look at all of them,” Derek muses, bringing both his arms to wrap around Stiles. One hand lands on Stiles’ cock, and starts to stroke it now, the other reaching down to tug and fondle his balls. “All drinking, partying, looking for someone to hook up, itching to get fucked or be fucked.”

“Fuck,” Stiles squirms in Derek’s hands, and that makes Derek groan, barely there friction to his cock, but Derek likes it like this. Stiles in his hand, Stiles on him, as they watch the party going on down below.

“And here we are, all the way up here, already fucking. If someone looked up here, they’d see us, well they’d see you, your cock out, hard and aching. I’m sure they’d love to see you come.”

“I think they’d wanna see you come more,” Stiles pants, one hand gripping the arm rest of the garden chair, the other flapping backwards to get his hand in Derek’s hair, just wanting to touch Derek, and he can’t reach Derek’s cock right now.  
“I’m sure the porn stars would love it,” Derek continues. “They’d probably want to make a porno of us, maybe even get in on a threesome. Some women love the thought of being with two men at the same time.”

“Oh God,” Stiles groans.

“Hmm,” Derek considers, taking his hand off of Stiles’ cock and running it up and under his shirt, gliding his fingers over Stiles’ nipples. He pinches one, then the other, and Stiles’ grip in Derek’s hair gets even firmer. “Imagine me eating you out from behind, getting your hole sopping wet, I wouldn’t even need any lube to finger you. I’d fuck you with my tongue first, until you were crying. But then, imagine one of those girls on her knees for you, sucking your cock at the same time. How fast do you think you’d come?”

“Jesus,” Stiles bucks trying to get some sort of friction to his cock, but Derek’s hands are only playing with his balls and nipples. It’s sweet torture.

“Those women are brutal. I don’t think they’d let you come so soon, not just with my tongue in your ass and their mouth wrapped around your cock,” Derek runs his hands down Stiles’ stomach, through the patch of hair running from his navel, down to his pubic hair. Derek’s hand skips past Stiles’ cock to run down one of his thighs.

Stiles tries to arch for more contact, moaning in frustration.

“Maybe if you had your cock deep in her pussy, fucking her, as I fuck you from behind, maybe then you’d be able to come.”

“Derek,” Stiles whines.

Derek smiles, finally giving Stiles what he wants. He nips at the back of Stiles’ neck, bringing his lips to Stiles’ shoulder and bites down, hard, at the same time that he starts to stroke Stiles again.

Stiles’ body goes lax at finally getting the contact he needs to his neglected cock, and he tosses his head to the side letting Derek nip and bite, leaving what he knows will be marks that won’t fade any time soon, and Stiles just doesn’t give a fuck.

Derek strokes Stiles a few more times, twisting his hand up as he goes, letting his thumb glide on the sensitive part on the underside of Stiles’ cock, and it’s enough to get Stiles to cry out.

Derek doesn’t try and shush him, and Stiles seems to momentarily forget that their on the roof of the clubhouse. He pants and moans as Derek strokes him through his orgasm, come splattering onto his shirt and down Derek’s hand.

“That’s it,” Derek hums, taking his hand off of Stiles’ cock and away from Stiles’ balls.

Stiles doesn’t even get to his feet, just slides his body down Derek’s, and Derek hisses at the contact to his still hard cock. Stiles gets on his knees, and barely manages to turn around, to kneel in-between Derek’s spread legs, before his hand is wrapping around Derek’s cock.

“Jesus fuck,” Stiles mutters as he jerks Derek off. "Your mouth should be illegal.”

Derek laughs, choking off into a moan when Stiles laps at the tip of his cock.

“Why? Anything I said didn’t catch your interest?”

“The opposite,” Stiles says between licks. “That’s all that’s going to be on my mind now.”

“Mmm,” Derek says, more to himself. He closes his eyes, and gives in to the sensation of Stiles taking Derek’s cock down his throat.

As much as Derek loves fucking Stiles, he has to admit to the appeal of seeing Stiles fuck a woman. Sure, Derek loves to get fucked, especially when Stiles does it, but he’s always so wrapped up in the sensation that he never actually really gets to pay attention. It’s an overload of sensation, and the next thing Derek knows, they’re both coming, panting each other’s names.

Now, Derek would love to see Stiles plough his cock into a woman, making her moan in pleasure, begging for more. He’d want to see if he can make Stiles stutter, getting wrapped up in his own pleasure from being fucked behind, while fucking a tight hole himself.

It’s obscene, and nothing Stiles or Derek ever did when they were dating, but just thinking about doing that now, feeling Stiles’ lips wrapped around his cock, Derek’s balls being fondled, is enough to have him coming down Stiles’ throat.

They’re both coming down from their orgasm, not really bothering to get cleaned up, but have their clothes back on. Stiles is back in his garden chair, downing his forgotten beer from earlier. Derek cracks open a new bottle, his werewolf claws doing the trick. Showoff.

“Man if you ever run a porn studio, that needs to be made first and foremost.”

Derek snorts, resting his beer in-between his spread thighs.

“Don’t you have some fancy pants formal job? I don’t think they’d appreciate porn star on the resume.”

“You’re right,” Stiles concedes. “It would definitely just have to remain a home movie. Although if I were a porn star, I’d definitely be the best in the business.”

Derek doesn’t agree, but he also doesn’t disagree. So, that’s something.

**

For the first time since Stiles came back to Beacon Hills, he decides to go to the cemetery. He hasn’t been since his father first died all those years ago, and he should probably feel bad, but he doesn’t, not really. It’s not like he doesn’t think about his mom and dad often, misses them every day, and besides, what use is there in actually just staring at a grave stone, and talking to the dead?

Nonetheless, Stiles feels like he should go to the cemetery any how.

He drives through the open gates, driving down the windy roads that take you throughout the large sprawling cemetery until he gets the right area where his parents are buried. He parks the car on the side of the narrow road. Stiles gets out and walks the few steps, where his parents are buried, beside a tree and bench — a bench in memory of some dead person —he sees their gravestones, side by side, Claudia and John Stilinski.

The gravestones are covered in a thin layer of dirt — obviously it hasn’t been cleaned in a very long time — but at least the grass around the stones are neatly trimmed, thanks to the maintenance workers.

Stiles stands in front of his parents graves, hands in the pockets of his jeans, just staring. He rocks back and forth on his heels wondering what to do, what to say. It’s not like there’s anyone around, so they’re not going to think he’s weird if he starts talking — besides, isn’t that people normally do anyway? No one would actually think he’s going crazy.

But, Stiles finds he doesn't have anything to say, not really anyway. If anything, just staring at their gravestones makes him think back about his own life, the decisions he’s made that have landed him where he is at this very minute.

Sure, Stiles had notions of being a police officer when he was younger, he thought his dad was a hero, but as he got older, he moved away from that. Then his father died, and all of a sudden he was leaving Beacon Hills and becoming a cop. If his dad were alive, would Stiles still have become a cop? Would he have still left Beacon Hills or would he have become a cop and worked under his dad?

If Stiles never left Beacon Hills, would he and Derek still be together? Not in the sense that they’re together now, as fuck buddies or whatever they are, but in a relationship?

Stiles can’t help but think if he never left Beacon Hills, he never would have got shot on the job, never had to have surgery, spend a week in the hospital, then months in physical therapy so he could finally move his shoulder again. He never would have had to stop being a cop.

On the flip side, if Stiles stayed in Beacon Hills and didn’t become a cop, that’s not to say he wouldn’t have gotten shot anyway. He would have still been running about with Derek, and there’s always some war brewing between WOW MC and some other clubs, and Stiles could have gotten caught in the middle of one of those wars.

Then again, Stiles could get hit by lightening, get in a freak car accident, get run over while he was walking to the coffee shop. There’s no use in trying to figure out what his life could have been, and what would have happened if he took a different path. He’s made his decisions, and he has to live with those whether he likes it or not.

Stiles gives a silent nod to his parent’s gravestones, before he turns around, and walks back towards his car. He gets back in and drives home, at least he can say he visited, and not feel to guilty.

Later that night, Stiles is debating whether he wants to order pizza — and if he’s really going to be able to eat it all (who’s he kidding, of course he can) — when Lydia texts him telling him to get showered and get ready, they’re going out drinking. Stiles isn’t at all surprised that she’s texting him on a Tuesday night, she does work shifts, so she probably has the next few days off. He’s in the shower and his nice jeans and shirt in no time, completely forgetting about dinner.

**

“Will Mr Stilinski be joining us tonight?” Peter asks from their booth table, where he’s sitting across from Derek. Peter looks the definition of relaxed, a small shit eating grin on his face.

The pack are back at The Crazy Horse for a drink, for no other reason than they wanted to go out, and do something fun (which means everyone is looking to get laid). It’s been a long week and it’s only Tuesday, so they definitely deserve it.

The only people that didn’t show up was Piney (although he loves to drink, he’s getting up in age and bars aren’t really his scene anymore, instead he likes to drink alone at the cabin), and Opie who has decided to spend time with his wife Donna, and his kids. The rest of the pack are at the bar ordering their drinks and trying to pick up men and women before they make their way back to the two booths that are reserved for them.

“Shut up Peter.”

Peter brings his hand to his chest in a fake hurt face.

“Well you two do seem to be spending a lot of time together, I’d hate to see you get hurt, again by Mr Stilinski. I’m only looking out for you, dear nephew.”

“I can look out for myself,” Derek replies, grabbing his drink and getting up and leaving the booth and Peter behind.

Derek takes a swig of his drink the ice clanking around the cup, as he sits down at one of the stools at the bar. What is Derek thinking anyway? Sure, the sex is good with Stiles, it’s familiar and fantastic, but is it worth the trouble. What happens when one of them decides to walk away?

He’s been doing fine all these years, only being in one serious relationship since he and Stiles broke up, and that asshole ended up being a drug addict and Derek walked away. Since then, he’s focused his attentions on the MC, and when he needed sex, he focused on one night stands. Those always worked in the past for him.

Derek’s lost in his thoughts, thinking of all the reasons why he shouldn’t be fucking Stiles anymore, that he doesn’t even notice when someone sits beside him at the bar. He only realises when the person clears their throat, catching Derek’s attention.

He instantly recognises him as one of the guys that always hangs around the bars that a lot of the different MC’S hang out at. His name is Juan Carlos, better known as Juice. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a matching dark t-shirt, his hair in it’s usual short mohawk, with tribal tattoos on either side of his head. He’s human, but seems to like the danger of hanging around werewolves. Not to mention, the sex is better with a werewolf, apparently.

“Buy you another?” Juice asks, a small smile on his face, nodding to Derek’s empty glass, only the melting ice cubes left.

Derek throws Stiles to the back of his mind, because if there’s one way to move on from him, it’s to get with someone else, and Juice is definitely easy on the eyes.

“Go for it,” Derek replies, plastering his most fake, flirtatious smile that he can muster.

Juice instantly brightens up, motioning for the bartender to come over.

**

“Is it bad that we’re nearly in our thirties and we still go out to bars on random evenings during the week? Shouldn’t we be respectable adults who stay in and are in bed by 10 PM each night, worrying about health and life insurance?” Stiles asks outside of The Crazy Horse. He’s having a cigarette and Lydia is standing a respectable distance away so as not to inhale the smoke. She hates smoking, just on the principal that she’s a doctor, but no matter how hard she tries, she can’t get Stiles to quit.

“Would you ever really want to be that boring?” Lydia pointedly asks. “Besides, I am respectable. I’m a surgeon. You’re a lobbyist with a managerial position. Just because we’re not married and have little ones running around, and worrying about which school has the best rating, doesn’t mean we’re not respectable.”

Stiles snorts, tapping some ash out of his cigarette.

“Though I bet you do wanna be married.”

Lydia sniffs, striding towards Stiles and snatching the cigarette out of his hand. She brings it to her lips and takes a deep inhale, closing her eyes, before she blows the smoke out. Watching someone smoke shouldn’t be so arousing to Stiles, but somehow Lydia makes it look elegant and sexy.

“Yes, I do expect Jackson to get around to proposing one day, even if I have to hint at it every day. At least I’m not fucking my ex boyfriend, and pretending it’s a no strings fling.”

With that Lydia drops the cigarette to the ground, grinding on it with the sole of her designer heels and marches inside.

“Low blow Ms Martin, low blow,” Stiles calls, even as he follows her inside the bar.

When they get into the bar, it’s not that hard to spot the rest of the MC, they’re the loudest, biggest, and rowdiest group in there. They wouldn’t have it any other way. Scott is hanging out with Kira again, Erica, Isaac, Lillian, and Minnie are playing a game of pool. Boyd and Tommy are playing a game of darts. Jackson immediately flits towards Lydia like the lovestruck whipped moron that he is, but he wouldn't have it any other way. Stiles’ eyes drift towards the booths at the back of the bar and finds the rest of the MC, Peter, Bobby, and Danny, no Derek.

Stiles catches Peter’s eye, and Peter gives a mischievous grin that can absolutely not mean anything good for Stiles, so he flicks his eyes away in search of Derek.

He’s taking the few steps towards the bar when his eyes land on Derek. Derek who has another man’s hand on his thigh, as they’re throwing drinks back. The guy who is skinny, maybe even a little lankier than Stiles, light brown skin, a short mohawk, with these god awful tribal tattoos on either side of his head, and Stiles has no idea who he is. All he knows is that this guy has his hands on Derek, and Derek doesn’t seem to mind.

In the few seconds that it takes Stiles to get to the bar, he has to remind himself that he and Derek are not actually in a relationship, and they’re free to fuck whoever they want to. So if Derek wants to flirt and fuck around with some guy right in front of Stiles — when Derek had to know that Stiles would be here — then fine, Stiles will be the big boy that he is and forget about it.

“Old Milwaukee,” Stiles says to the bartender, standing a good distance away from Derek.

The bartender slides the bottle across the bar towards Stiles, and Stiles drops a bill on the counter before he takes the bottle of beer, taking a large sip, staring at Derek. Derek who still hasn’t noticed him. It’s not like Derek could possibly be that stupid to realise that Stiles is here.

The bar isn’t that big.  
Werewolves know a scent of the people they’re closest too, and granted they’re not best friends but there’s no way that Derek just conveniently forgot Stiles’ scent.  
Stiles is literally standing less than two meters away from Derek.

So, that means Derek is purposely ignoring Stiles. Whatever, Stiles can deal.

He heads towards the dart board where Boyd and Tommy are, so he can watch the game while simultaneously having his back towards Derek. Unfortunately, walking towards the direction of the dart board brings his past the booth where Peter is sitting, and Peter can never resist making a snide remark.

“You should know, these days, most people don’t hold Derek’s interest for very long. I suppose that includes you as well.”

Stiles just lifts his beer bottle, tipping it towards Peter’s direction to indicate that he heard, but other than that, keeps walking towards Boyd and Tommy. Stiles is just really not in the mood to get into a passive aggressive argument with Peter, because he’s positive it’ll end with someone getting a black eye, and lets be real, that’ll be Stiles. Stupid werewolves can heal their bruises in seconds.

He’s into his third game of darts against Tommy, getting more drunk as the minutes pass, and losing more money on the bets he’s making against Tommy. Tommy is some sort of darts champion, and Stiles barely even knows what he’s doing. When it’s Tommy’s turn, Stiles goes to the table to grab his bottle of beer, when his eyes catch sight of Derek and motorcycle groupie man exiting out the front door, hands all over each other. Stiles downs the half bottle of beer in one gulp.

Isaac appears out of no where, at Stiles’ side, grabbing his arm and leading him towards the back exit of the bar.

“C’mon, I’ve got some weed that needs smoking.”

Stiles snorts, trailing behind Isaac.

“I can’t smoke your guys funky infused weed, I’ll probably die.”

Isaac kicks open the back door, and they exit onto the back alley of the bar, where there’s dumpsters and piles of old bottles and cans waiting to be taken to the recycling.

“There’s a guy normally back here, always selling, we’ll get some for you.”

Isaac’s eyes scan up and down the alley because he yells.

“Santino.”

Before Stiles knows it, a man in jeans and a crisp white dress shirt is walking towards them from the entrance of all the alleyway.

“Ghost Train Haze,” Isaac orders, and the man — Santino — produces a baggy of weed out of God knows where and hands it to Isaac. Isaac throws some bills at him, and then Santino disappears again.

Isaac fishes some rolling paper out of his pocket, tossing that and the baggy to Stiles. Isaac starts rolling his own weed.

“Jesus, I used to be a cop, and now I’m buying weed in a dark, sketchy alleyway behind a bar, and smoking it with a dude who’s had a longer relationship with prison than any man or woman.”

Isaac rolls his eye, sitting on an old crate against the wall farthest from the bar. He’s licking the rolling paper, rolling his joint to perfection, before he lights it up. He closes his eyes akin to what Lydia did earlier with Stiles’ cigarette, Isaac inhales the joint, the end sparking red, holding it in for a few seconds. When he blows the smoke out, he groans in satisfaction.

“Even your dad didn’t bust the weed dealers,” Isaac points out, stretching his legs out. “He had more hard pressed things to focus on.”

“Yeah like getting you bad guys,” Stiles snorts. “What would he think of me now?” and yeah Stiles really doesn’t want to go down that path right now. He lights up his joint, and he’s gotta admit, this stuff is fucking good. It’ll certainly help him forget all his boy woes. God, you’d think he was in high school. Except no, in high school he didn’t have any boy troubles. He had one boy, and that one boy was always around, no drama.

Right, Stiles needs more weed.

Stiles plops down next to Isaac on the crate — two grown men barely fitting, but they make it work — smoking their weed in companionable silence. Stiles has got to admit, this is nice. He and Isaac may never have been the best of friends, but it’s nicer to be out here — even in a sketchy alleyway — smoking, than being inside with the loud music and people.

He’s halfway through his first joint, when the door to the back of the bar opens up, and out comes Lydia and Jackson. Lydia takes one look at Stiles and Isaac, narrowing her eyes. Jackson just strides towards Isaac, “dude give me some,” he whines as Isaac hands over his joint.

“Give me the baggy Stiles,” Lydia demands, her high heels clicking against the pavement, walking towards Stiles and stopping right in front of Stiles’ open legs. “And the papers.”

Stiles frowns, feels like he’s being scolded by his mother, but hands the baggy and the rolling papers anyway. The last thing he wants to deal with his feeling Lydia’s wrath.

To Stiles’ surprise, Lydia sits down on one of Stiles’ legs, her side pressed to Stiles’ front, and legs dangling between Stiles’ open legs. She pulls a rolling paper out of the package, and opens the baggy of weed. She breaks the weed apart, evenly placing it along the paper, rolling it expertly.  
Stiles sputters, even as he’s taking a puff out of his own joint.

“Please,” Lydia sighs. “There are health benefits to marijuana.”

“Any health benefits that are going to help you right now?” Stiles counters. And why is he countering? His best friend these past few years is smoking a joint with him, he should be fucking ecstatic. He is, just surprised is all.

“Yes. Dealing with your moping ass.”

“Ouch,” Stiles groans, at the same time Jackson snickers.

Stiles ignores Jackson in favour of rubbing his free hand up and down Lydia’s back.

“I’m not moping.”

He watches in fascination as Lydia brings the joint up to her pouting lips, lipstick perfectly in place. She wraps her lips around the joint, and Stiles brings the lighter up to the joint to light it up for her. She takes a few puffs, waiting for the joint to get a proper light, before she inhales. Just like before, she closes her eyes and inhales.

“Good shit,” she nods. “And yes, you are moping. Everyone saw Derek leave with Juice.”

“Juice? The fuck kinda name is that,” Stiles mutters.

“The fuck kinda name is Stiles,” Jackson retorts.

Isaac slaps Jackson’s leg playfully, but still laughs a little under his breath.

Stiles has finished his joint, head resting against the hard brick wall behind him, as Lydia, Isaac, and Jackson are still smoking. His life is fucking surreal.

“Seriously, if someone told me a month and a half ago that I’d be back in Beacon Hills, sitting in an alleyway at midnight, smoking weed with Isaac Lahey, Jackson Whittemore, and Lydia Martin, I’d have fallen off my chair laughing.”

“Believe me, I never thought I’d be smoking weed with you either,” Jackson says, and Isaac nods his head in agreement. “You were supposed to be some goody two shoes cop.”

“Getting shot and ousted from the police force has an effect on you.”

“Apparently that affect is falling into bed with your convict ex boyfriend.”

“Jackson!” Lydia snaps, straightening her back.

“What?” Jackson screeches. “It’s true.”

Stiles waves his hand, flopping it about, he’s just feeling too relaxed to even care.

“Don’t worry about it Lyds, he’s right. Who the fuck falls into bed with their ex boyfriend? Pathetic people, that’s who.”

“If it makes you feel any better, that would make Derek pathetic also, since he fell into bed with you,” Isaac points out.

Stiles nods his head in a silent ‘yeah,’ because Derek is just as pathetic. That makes him feel a little better.

“Not to mention that Derek’s only had one serious relationship after you left, and that pretty much blew up in his face,” Jackson adds.

Which, Stiles did not know. It’s not like he can ask his ex boyfriend what he’s been up to, relationship wise, while they were apart.

“Stop trying to make me feel better,” Stiles grumbles. “It’s creeping me out.”

**

When Derek wakes up at the clubhouse, sprawled on his back, he senses someone beside him on the bed. He momentarily thinks it’s Stiles, until he realises the scent is all wrong, and the previous night comes back to the forefront of his mind. Juice. Right, he fucked with Juice.

Derek rubs his hand up and down his face, through his hair, before he swings his legs up and off the bed. He makes a grab for his boxers, before putting on the rest of his clothes. He purposely makes a lot of noise, pretending to accidentally knock something off the night stand, so that Juice will wake up.

A few seconds later, he hears Juice groaning, stirring under the sheets. Good, he’s awake.

Derek leaves the bedroom at the clubhouse, making his way towards the front area. There’s a fresh pot of coffee brewing, thanks to Chucky their resident human who does all their bidding. They did save Chucky from being killed by a rival gang, the least he can do is shit around the clubhouse and mechanic shop.

He’s already poured his cup of coffee and eating a bowl of Cheerios at the bar, when Juice exits from the bedroom. His eyes are red, showing that he’s hungover, and his clothes are half strewn on. There’s a few whistles (as always) from some of the pack members milling around the clubhouse. Juice just smiles before he leaves the clubhouse, not before giving Derek a nod and a wink.

Derek thanks fuck that Juice isn’t clingy. The last thing Derek would need is Juice trying to get his number or say they should ‘do this again.’ Juice seems to understand the etiquette of one night stands, probably because he makes his way around different motorcycle clubs around California.

**

Stiles, surprisingly, does not wake up hungover. He wakes up in his own bed — alone — glancing at the clock. It’s 7AM, way too fucking early to be awake, but he knows he’s not going to be able to fall back asleep. He has to work to do, but he can do that later on, before he has a Skype meeting with his co-workers later that evening.

Pancakes are calling his name right now, but he can hardly be bothered to make them himself. Besides, The Classic Cafe, in town makes the best pancakes. They’re so fluffy, and full of chocolate chips and it just melts in your mouth. Stiles’ stomach already grumbles just thinking about those delicious, heavenly pancakes.

Stiles is quite content to sit alone and eat his pancakes, with is iPad to keep him entertained. He’s not one of those people that gets all weird eating at restaurants alone, feeling like everyone is staring at him like he’s some kind of loser. He actually kind of likes it, to be in the middle of a busy area, ambient noise all around him, but him in his own little world. He can think like that, on his own, but background noise to distract him at the same time.

There are some noises, or rather some people he’d rather not see. Especially when he’s digging in to the gooiest, chocolatey pancakes known to man.

Stiles is momentarily distracted from his pancakes, when he sense a person standing beside the booth he’s sitting in. When he looks up, he realises it’s the man from last night, the one that was all over Derek — Juice — or whatever the fuck his name was. He inwardly groans, but doesn’t let it show on his face.

“Stiles, isn’t it?” Juice asks, sitting down across from Stiles in the booth with his coffee to go cup. Uh, fucking rude, Stiles did not invite this little shit to sit.

“Juice, right?” Stiles answers as pleasantly as he can, fake smile on his face.

Juice nods his head. He looks down at his clothes, smirking, before he looks back up at Stiles.

“Sorry for looking like such a slob, late night last night, if you catch me drift.”

Everyone in the diner can catch this idiot’s drift. His attempt at being subtle is sorely lacking.

Stiles raises his eyebrow, then takes a sip of his coffee.

“You normally hang around Derek don’t you?” Juice continues, not bothered by the fact that Stiles hasn’t said anything. “I hope there are no hard feelings about last night. I offered to buy him a drink, next thing I know he was leading us out of the bar.”

Stiles stabs his stack of pancakes, cutting into it viciously before swallowing down a large chunk.

“I mean as far as I can tell, you two aren’t actually together or anything right? From what I’ve heard, Derek likes to fuck,” Juice shrugs nonchalantly.

This dude is the opposite of nonchalant.

“Did you get his number?” Stiles finally speaks, putting his knife and fork down. Best to put the knife down before he does something unsavoury with it. Like stab the dudes hand that’s resting on the table. Or shove it up his ass.

“Huh?” Juice startles.

“Derek’s. Did you get his number?” Stiles repeats in an utterly bored tone.

“Uh —”

“You’re right,” Stiles now smiles, the definition of pure evil. “Derek does like to fuck. I’m sure he even has a string of one night stands these past few years. But the thing about those, they’re exactly that, one night stands. I on the other hand, have been fucking him regularly these past few weeks. So whatever fun you had last night, I hope it was enough to last you, because you’ll only have the memories now.”

Juice blanches, looking at Stiles disbelieving. He seems to shake himself out of it before he replies.

“Everyone knows that Derek’s been single since his junkie ex, you think just because you’re another of his ex’s he gives any more of a shit about you?”

“I’ll be sure to ask him tonight,” Stiles smiles, closed mouth. He watches as Juice huffs, sliding out of the booth and out of the door, his coffee forgotten on the table.

Okay, so that was the single most petty thing Stiles has ever done. Maybe the second, he did once get into a fist fight in high school when someone said some stupid shit about him and Derek. And he did end up with a black eye, but then Derek did somehow kinda get turned on by Stiles’ black eye and the fact that he got into a fist fight.

Okay, Stiles revises, it’s in the top three of petty things he’s done and he and Derek have always had, well, not the most sane relationship out there, but it had worked for them once.

Stiles knows he and Derek aren’t in a relationship, not a romantic one at least, so he can’t really be all up in arms about Derek fucking some other dude, but it still sucks. It doesn’t help that the person that fucked Derek last night just wants to throw it in his face. If Stiles were a different man — no that’s a lie, if Stiles didn’t have his pancakes to finish — he’d probably have thrown down with this Juice dick face. Maybe Beacon Hills does bring out the bad boy steak in him or something.

**

The last thing Derek ever expected when he woke up this morning with a motorcycle groupie in his bed, was a text from Stiles later that day. It didn’t say much — besides: ‘meet at the clubhouse tonight?’ — and well, Derek knows what that means.

That night Stiles fucks Derek like he has a point to prove. Stiles is rough, shoving Derek down on the bed, barely prepping him before he’s pushing into Derek. He pushes Derek’s face farther into the bed, holding him down by his neck as he thrusts into Derek. Derek, for his part, doesn’t complain. He moans in desire, in want, saying ‘more, harder, is that all you’ve got?’ and he knows it’ll egg Stiles on, and that’s exactly what he wants.

Even when Stiles flips Derek over so that he’s on his back, and they’re face-to-face, it doesn’t make it any more romantic or soft. It’s still a hard, good fuck. Stiles grabs the backs of Derek’s legs, pushing them back and up towards Derek’s ears, as far as Derek’s body will allow. Stiles fucks into Derek with abandon, panting hard, sweat dripping down onto Derek’s chest. The few times that Derek actually manages to open his eyes to watch Stiles, Stiles has his eyes closed, face scrunched up in pleasure and such concentration.

Stiles is typically pretty vocal in bed, all the other times they’ve fucked, but this time he’s quiet. He doesn’t even whisper dirty things in Derek’s ear like he used to, he just shows his frustration, his anger, his want by fucking into Derek with no words. Derek doesn’t know whether he likes a quiet Stiles fucking him, or a vocal one, but by the time Stiles’s hard cock is ramming into his prostate, Derek doesn’t give a fuck.

Derek has a hand on his cock, fisting himself, his other hand playing with his tight, full balls as Stiles hits his prostate repeatedly. Derek ends up coming first, spunk landing on his upper chest and on his beard and it’s all so dirty. At that, Stiles manages to open his eyes, watching as Derek comes, and that’s when he finally speaks, muttering: “fuck, fuck,” over and over before he pushes in one last time, balls deep, emptying himself into Derek.

They don’t even say anything after they’ve cleaned up, Derek using his t-shirt to clean up the come on his stomach and trying to get it out of his beard. Stiles wanders into the bathroom, to clean himself up, and when he comes back into the bedroom, Derek is leaning against the headboard with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He silently hands one to Stiles, flicking the zippo lighter open for Stiles. They sit against the headboard, silently smoking, and after, when they stub their cigarettes out, they settle down into bed and soon drift off to sleep.

When Derek wakes up the next morning, Stiles has already slipped out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> \- Mentions of a threesome (just in case you're not into that).  
> \- Derek sleeps with someone else.  
> \- Drug use.
> 
> [tumblr](http://foughtthewolvesofpatience.tumblr.com/), come say hi.


	4. Chapter 4

Derek’s doing a routine oil change on one of the porn star’s cars from the party for Bobby the other week, when he hears running footsteps towards the office area in the garage. He lets his eyes glance towards who it is running, Filthy Phil, one of the prospects, and he’s heading right towards where Peter is, who for once, is actually doing some of the paper work that needs doing for the mechanic shop.

“I think Opie got picked up,” Filthy Phil says, stuttering to a stop just outside of Peter’s office, not even bothering to knock on the door, and waiting to be told to enter.

It speaks volumes that this is important information, because Peter doesn’t even get mad, doesn’t yell, doesn’t growl or even let his eyes flash red. Peter lets the papers flutter around his desk, pushing back his chair to stand up.

Derek abandons the car he’s working on, motioning for one of the other mechanics to take over.

“You think Opie got picked up?” Peter asks, striding towards Filthy Phil. “Chapel room, now.”

Filthy Phil nods his head, and follows after Peter.

Peter nods his head in Derek’s direction, having a silent conversation, and Derek knows exactly what he means.

Derek takes his phone out and texts the rest of the club and Deaton to meet at the clubhouse, now.

While Peter, Derek, and Filthy Phil are waiting for some of the other members that aren’t already at the clubhouse to show up, they do the perfunctory, but necessary sweep of the chapel meeting room to make sure there are no hidden bugs. It would be hard to have someone infiltrate and hide a bug, but it’s not entirely impossible. Better safe than sorry.

When everyone is sitting around the table, minus Opie, Peter begins the meeting. Filthy Phil is the only prospect allowed in the chapel meeting room, and only because he has some pertinent information.

“Start from the beginning,” Peter instructs, after banging the gavel to start the meeting.

“I went to pick up Opie, we were the ones in charge of checking on the drugs at Lumpy’s laundromat. When I got there, no one was there, not Opie, not his wife Donna or the kids. Except Opie’s bike and Donna’s car were there,” Filthy Phil explains, standing at the opposite end of the table from Peter.

Deaton clears his throat from behind Peter, catching the attention of everyone in the room.

“That hardly means Opie was picked up, now does it?”

Filthy Phil shakes his head.

“They have a nosy neighbour, some old man who doesn’t like the club, but he pays attention to everything going on, on his street. He said he heard some noise around 4AM this morning, when he went to peek out the front room window of his house, he said he saw a black sedan and Opie, Donna, and the kids were getting in. Some suit shut the door, got in the front and sped away.”

“A suit, black sedan, middle of the night. Seems like government interference to me,” Lillian pipes up.

“You think he’s flipping?” Danny asks nervously.

“Bullshit,” Derek spits at the same time Peter says, “possibly.”

Derek shoots Peter a death stare, gripping the edge of the table.

“What reason does Ope have to turn on us?” Derek spits.

“He isn’t a fan of our drug running operation,” Peter raises an eyebrow.

“Ope has just done five fucking years for this club in prison. You think he’d go through that bullshit just to turn on us now? If he was going to turn, he would have done it when he was on the inside, for reduced time and WITSEC.”

Peter looks as if he’s about to say something, but Deaton interrupts Peter and Derek, before it gets too heated. Deaton does know how a group of werewolves can get, especially when temperaments start to rise.

“I believe it would be in the best interest of the club to wait it out, give it a day or two, and see what happens,” Deaton explains. “If Opie is indeed flipping, there’s nothing that can be done. If they’re only trying to scare him into flipping on the club, then I suspect you have nothing to worry about.”

“Damn right we have nothing to worry about,” Piney — Opie’s father — bangs his hand on the table. “My son is no traitor to this club.”

“You’ve made it clear yourself you’re not in favour of the drug running,” Peter reminds Piney.

Piney’s face turns red, as he stands up instantly, his chair flipping backwards on to the ground.

“If you dear think I’d flip on this club Peter, you have another thing coming. If you forget, my family line was vital in creating this club along with the Hale’s.”

“I think we should listen to Deaton,” Boyd interjects. “There’s no use jumping to conclusions now.”

Peter looks around the table, to each of the members, Deaton, and Filthy Phil, before he nods his head. “Very well,” and bangs the gavel, declaring the meeting over.

The room empties out quickly, leaving Peter and Derek in the room together. Derek swivels his chair a little so he can look at Peter, eyes unmoving, but doesn’t say a word.

“Oh spit it out already nephew,” Peter sighs.

“You know Ope wouldn’t rat, what reason would he have?”

“I’m hardly in his mind now am I?” Peter asks.

“Just don’t do anything stupid,” Derek warns before he walks out of the room.

Derek’s really not in the mood to talk to anyone, the thought of one of his oldest friends turning on the club just seems ridiculous. Opie may not be in favour of the drug running, but he knows it’s how the club works, they take a vote, majority wins.

**

Stiles doesn’t hear from Derek much after that night he fucked Derek into the mattress without saying so much as a word. He had gotten a text to meet Derek at the clubhouse, so Stiles thought everything was good, and then Derek had texted, bailing on him.

He doesn’t think much of it, but after three days, Stiles thinks Derek is avoiding him.

When he talks to Lydia about it, Stiles soon realises that it has nothing to do with Stiles, and everything to do with a problem going on with the club. Lydia explains how Jackson had told her that they think Opie got picked up, and was flipping on the club.

Stiles’ blood run cold when he hears that news. He has to make a phone call to make.

Later that night, when he’s alone in his bedroom, he calls the contact under ‘pizza’ in his phone.

“Hello.”

“This is Stiles Stilinski calling for Wolfsbane,” Stiles sighs, he hates having to go through this every time. The number Stiles always dials only has one incoming number, and that’s Stiles’. No one else has this number, but apparently Stiles still has to go through this process.

“Password?”

“Romeo, Alpha, Tango.”

“Confirmed. What is it Stiles?” Stahl asks in a haggard voice.

“What the fuck is going on?” Stiles demands, forgoing any niceties. “You picked up Opie and his family?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant -”

“That’s not part of our plan! We never spoke about picking Opie up, trying to get him to flip,” Stiles argues.

“It might not have been part of our plan, but if it’ll get us to our endgame, then that’s what I’ll do”

“It’s risky,” Stiles tries to reason.

“But the payoff might be fantastic,” Stahl pauses, sighing. “It’s not like it matters, Opie doesn’t seem too interested in flipping. I’ve even separated his wife from him, trying to get her to flip, to think of her family, she isn’t budging either.”

Stiles doesn’t say one thing or another, not giving his feelings away on the matter. At the end of the day, Stahl and he never spoke about taking one of the WOW MC members and trying to get them to flip, it was too risky.

He clicks off the phone before either of them can say anything more on the matter, it would be a moot point anyway.

**

Four days after Opie got ‘picked up,’ he and his family magically return back to Beacon Hills as if nothing happened. Derek is at the mechanic shop, going through inventory, when he hears the news.

Peter wastes no time in calling an emergency chapel meeting, this time with Opie included.

“I know how this looks,” Opie starts. “Stahl set me up to look like a rat. She said she had a witness for the Mayan shooting, it doesn’t make sense though. Why would anyone just single me out?”

“Then why pick you up?” Peter asks.

“I don’t know. She tried to turn Donna against me, tried to get her to take witness protection, to turn against the club. Donna told her to fuck off. Donna trusted in me that I could come in here, speak to you guys and tell you the truth. I’m no rat. Am I good with you Peter?” Opie asks, taking a drag of his cigarette. “I’m with the club, I’m fully in, drugs and all. I’d never turn.”

There’s a long pause, as everyone sitting around the table holds their breath. They each look at Peter, waiting for him to answer. Eventually, Peter nods his head.

“You’re good Opie. You’re a good man.”

Peter declares the meeting over, banging his gavel. Piney gets up to hug his son, telling Opie he’s proud of him. Opie hugs the rest of the members, saving Derek for last.

“I never doubted you brother,” Derek grins, patting Opie on the back.

**

Two days later, everything goes to shit.

Donna was driving Opie’s truck one evening, going to the store to pick up some stuff for a party the MC were having at Erica and Boyd’s house, when a drive by shooter fires an automatic weapon into the back of the truck. Three or four bullets were shot off, and Donna was killed with a bullet straight through the back of the head.

In a matter of minutes there are the distant sounds of sirens, and soon the intersection is shut down for the cops to do their job. Soon after, there’s the loud rumble of motorcycles pulling up to the scene.

Opie is off his motorcycle in seconds, running past the police tape, shoving an officer out of the way. He makes it to his wife, who is now laid out on the ground, covered in a white blanket. He drops to his knees, pulling the blanket back to really make sure it’s his wife lying dead on the ground. He yells, starts to cry as his cradles Donna’s lifeless body in his arms. He doesn’t even care or notice the blood seeping into his own clothes.

Derek only gives the officer one hard, long look, before he’s allowed past the police tape. His stomach turns to acid when he sees Donna. He’s no rookie when it comes to being around dead bodies, but when it comes to seeing someone that he knows, that he cares for, it’s another matter entirely. He knows first hand about seeing the people you love laying down dead in the dirt. It brings back memories of his families burned bodies.

Derek squats down next to Opie, putting his hand on his shoulder.

“C’mon Opie,” Derek says, trying to coax Opie away from the dead body. Only staring at her will cause more pain for Opie.

Opie shoves Derek’s hand off his shoulder, not listening, still crying.

Derek doesn’t try again, he knows it’ll be no use.

When Derek spots Peter at the crime scene, he gets up, and heads towards where Peter and Tommy are talking to one of the officers.

“What happened?” Derek asks.

“Drive by shooting,” the officer answers.

Derek barely stops from rolling his eyes, because no shit. Tommy senses that Derek is about to say something scathing to the officer, and the last thing they need is a member of the MC punching an officer and landing their ass in jail. Everyone needs to be there for Opie. So, Tommy grabs Derek, pulling him away from being within the officer’s hearing range.

“A witness says it looked like a rival gang, Mayans. It was probably payback for the shooting.”

“Why would they go after Donna?” Derek asks, glancing towards where an officer is trying to pry Opie away from his dead wife.

“Hit us where it hurts the most?” Tommy asks, shrugging, unsure. “Or they thought it was Opie, it is his truck.”

It’s hours later, after they’ve been to the morgue, dealt with the police, and managed to get Opie home in one piece, that Derek finally makes it back to his apartment.

He doesn’t cry, but he feels like he could be on the verge of it, probably just too much in shock. He thinks about Opie never getting to see the love of his life again — the woman who waited five years, struggling to make ends meet while Opie was in prison — how Opie’s children are never going to see their mother again. Derek knows that feeling all too well, and at least those children still have their father, but it doesn’t make it any easier to accept.

He’s three beers deep, when he hears a knock at his door. He considers ignoring it, but before that thought can even pass through his mind, the knocking persists, insistent. He knows it’s not one of the MC members, if they needed something they would have just texted. The only logical person it could be, was Stiles.

When Derek slides the large steel door open, Stiles pushes his way in without waiting to be invited.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks, his eyes glancing Derek’s body from head to toe, looking for injuries.

“I wasn’t the one shot dead,” Derek says, probably a little too harshly.

Stiles, for his part, only winces momentarily, before he recovers. He steps closer to Derek, resting his hand on Derek’s arm, and Derek doesn’t pull away.

“How’s Opie doing?”

Derek snorts and Stiles shakes his head, turning around. He runs his hands through his hair, before he stops, turning around to look at Derek again.

“Of course, he’s probably not doing well at all. Jesus, how the fuck did this happen?”

“We think it was Mayans, retaliation for… something,” Derek doesn’t go too much into detail because he’s never actually told Stiles about the Mayan killings, although Stiles probably suspects as much. They did fuck right after it happened.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Stiles shakes his head, plopping down on the couch.

Derek just shrugs sitting down next to Stiles, polishing off the last of his beer.

Stiles opens and closes his mouth a few times, before he finally speaks, as if he’s unsure what to say, or how to say it.

“I just had to make sure you were okay,” he starts, picking at his jeans to distract himself from looking at Derek. “I know you weren’t the one hurt, not physically at least, but once I heard about the shooting, I just had to see with my own eyes. I was scared you guys were just going to go off in retaliation right away, consequences be damned.”

“I thought about it,” Derek admits. “For Opie’s sake, but I know he’d want to be the one to kill whoever killed his wife. I’d be the same if someone killed the one I love.”

Stiles finally looks up, and Derek’s staring right back at him.

“You mean to kill the ones that killed your parents?”

Derek’s mouth twitches up into the smallest semblance of a smile.

“Among other people.”

Stiles nods.

“Right, the rest of your family too of course.”

“Among other people,” Derek barely whispers, and he almost thinks Stiles doesn’t hear.

Only, Stiles stiffens, probably for a millisecond, but Derek notices nonetheless. Derek’s about to open his mouth, backpedal, say he didn’t mean that. Only, he knows, and he knows Stiles knows, that it would be a lie. It would always be a lie to try and deny the fact. But, Derek doesn’t get time to even try and backpedal.

Stiles turns his head the last little bit, so that he’s face-to-face with Derek on the couch, and leans in and kisses Derek. It’s probably the softest, most tentative kiss that they’ve shared since Stiles got back into Beacon Hills. Derek instantly relaxes into the kiss, his hand coming up to cup one of Stiles’ cheeks, kissing right back.

Stiles takes that as the encouragement that he needs, sighing into the kiss, and swinging his leg around so that he’s straddling Derek on the couch. Derek’s hands instantly stop to Stiles’ hips, pulling him closer, and Stiles’ hands wrap around the back of Derek’s neck, pulling his mouth closer.

They kiss, slowly, so slowly, their tongues dragging against each other, Stiles’ nails scratching the back of Derek’s neck, and the hair at his nape, causing Derek to moan, and pull Stiles closer to him.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says between kisses. “So sorry.”

And Derek doesn’t know what Stiles is apologising for, and in that moment he doesn’t even care. They just keep kissing, and the next moment, Derek is laying Stiles out on the couch, hovering above him. They stare at each other for a few seconds, maybe even minutes, just breathing the same air, eyes focused so intently on each other.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles repeats, and Derek closes the distance, kissing him again, his hands unbuttoning Stiles’ jeans.

When they wake up in the morning — Stiles half smushed in-between the back of the couch and the cushions, and Derek laying half on him, and half on the rest of the couch, both stark naked — Stiles smiles, and kisses Derek, both not caring about morning breath.

“Please tell me you have food in the house,” Stiles sighs in-between kisses, his stomach grumbling.

“Who says’ I’m cooking for you?” Derek quips back, a grin on his face.

Stiles kicks his leg out, connecting with Derek’s shin, playfully.

“I was thinking I’m gonna make breakfast for you,” Stiles says raising an eyebrow. “While you go grab a shower, it’ll do you some good.”

Derek is instantly brought back to the reason Stiles even showed up in the first place, and how Derek pretty much just admitted he’s still in love with Stiles, because Donna had died. He instantly sobers up a little, becoming more somber, nodding his head.

Stiles pats Derek on the chest, a reassuring smile on his face.

“So, go shower, I’ll cook,” and kisses Derek one more time before they both untangle from the impossibly small couch. Stiles even has lines on his face from where he slept against the cushions, and Derek’s hair is sticking up in all directions.

Stiles takes the time to appreciate the view of Derek’s fine ass, and muscled back, as he walks towards the bathroom, before Stiles hops up and puts coffee to brew, and starts making scrambled eggs, nice and creamy just like Derek likes it.

**

Stiles goes home later that evening, because Derek says he has club business to deal with, though they promise to meet up later. Stiles nods his head, telling Derek to text him he’s done, and Stiles will meet at Derek’s apartment.

When he gets home, Stiles instantly runs to his bedroom, shuts the door, and dials the all too familiar number.

“Hello.”

This time, Stiles doesn’t even bother going through with the security protocol.

“This is all your fault!” Stiles yells down the line.

“Woah, woah,” Stahl says, disbelieving. “Official reports say that it was a rival gang.”

“Bullshit! Opie got picked up by you, made to look like a snitch, and a few days later his wife ends up dead. Doesn’t that seem a little suspicious to you?”

“Stiles,” Stahl sighs, trying to reason. “Official reports say rival gang, Mayans apparently, all for a murder that the MC supposedly took part in. I can hardly be help responsible for whatever happens to the club.”

“This is on you Stahl, all on you. If you hadn’t picked up Opie, none of this would have happened. This was never part of the plan. This is getting all out of hand.”

“Need I remind you of your job Mr Stilinski?” Stahl says in what can only be considered a threatening tone.

“No, I know what my job is,” Stiles spits, hanging up.

If any of this gets out, Stiles knows he’s dead, so fucking dead.

He takes his pills, washing it down with water from the bathroom, before laying down on the bed, defeated.

**

Donna’s funeral is a few days later. She doesn’t have any family other than Opie and her children, both her parents out of her life, fucked off somewhere, strung out on drugs, for all they knew, her parents are already probably dead. That doesn’t stop the funeral from being large. All the members of the MC are there, along with members from other charters. Members from Oregon and Arizona show up to pay their respects.

Derek is comforted knowing that Stiles is by his side throughout the funeral, Stiles’ hand firmly in Derek’s, a reassuring presence. Derek stands beside Opie and his children at the funeral, as Piney says a few words about his daughter-in-law. Opie was too distraught to be able to say anything, basically shutting down, unable to even utter a word. His children are just as distraught as well, frightened and confused about what’s going on.  
 Of course Opie’s children know that their dad rides a motorcycle and is always hanging around the MC, but they’re still too young to fully understand what being part of the MC actually entails. They don’t understand why their mother was killed.

After the funeral, the MC all head back to the clubhouse where they’ll have a little wake in honour of Donna. These wakes typically involve catching up with other members of the MC from other charters, drinking, and trying to have a good time. The club don’t believe in mourning too much, you just have to pick up and move on. Opie takes his children home, and locks himself a way.

Derek knows that he’ll be the one to check in on Opie later, he knows he’ll be the one to make sure that the children are fed and put to bed. Piney will help as much as he can, but he’s an old man now and trying to look after two young children and deal with a grieving son is too much work.

Derek’s more surprised at the fact that Stiles offers to go with Derek to Opie’s house a few hours into the wake. Derek’s so used to their being whatever they are, as just fucking anytime they had a spare minute. Now, Stiles is offering to help, and it’s all so new, yet familiar, like back in the day.

When they get to Opie’s house, Stiles instantly gathers the kids, and declares that they should order in some dinner, and the kids instantly demand pizza. Stiles calls for a pizza and starts to distract the children as much as he can, playing with them, turning on the TV to a funny show, anything. Derek walks towards the back bedroom, and finds Opie lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

He tries to get Opie to talk, to say anything, but he lays there, unmoving, staring at the ceiling. Derek sits against the headboard of the bed, not talking, just being a comforting presence for Opie for a few hours. He loses track of time until Stiles pops his head in the door, motioning for Derek to come out.

He pats Opie on the chest, with a muttered: “We’ll find who did this,” before he exits the bedroom.

“The kids are showered and in bed,” Stiles whispers. “How’s Opie?”

“He hasn’t moved or spoken in hours,” Derek sighs, scrubbing at his beard.

“Well the kids will be fine over night, but what about in the morning? Someone needs to look after them until Opie snaps out of it.”

Derek nods his head, looking around the quiet house.

“I’ll get someone from the pack to come over in the morning until we can figure something out.”

Once they exit the house, Derek straddling his motorcycle and handing Stiles the extra helmet, Derek speaks up.

“Thanks.”

Stiles gives him a quizzical look, buckling the helmet strap under his chin.

“For tonight, for helping with Opie’s kids, for coming to the funeral with me,” Derek explains.

Stiles smiles, a tentative smile, leaning in to Derek’s mouth.

“No problem,” and kisses Derek, before getting on the bike, wrapping his arms around Derek’s middle.

Derek kickstarts the motorcycle, revving it to life, before speeding off down the road.

It’s exactly as Derek remembers it, all those years ago, to feel Stiles behind him on the bike, like he’s always been there.

**

In the couple of weeks following, everything seems to have settled down, and Derek and Stiles are glued to the hip. No longer just friends with benefits, but not officially back together. Though neither of them feel the need to label it as anything. The few times they’ve been out to the bar, neither have looked at any another person to try and pick up with. When Juice had walked into the bar, Derek barely gave him a second look, and Stiles looked a little too smug about that.

The MC still haven’t come up with a retaliation for Donna’s death, and Opie shows up at the chapel meetings, but he’s still very withdrawn and it frightens all the other MC members. They know there’s nothing they can really do about it right now, people grieve in their own way.

**

“You and Derek huh?” Lydia asks, taking a sip of the margarita she made. Her and Stiles are sitting on the back patio of hers and Jackson’s house.

“Well, we’re not Facebook official or anything,” Stiles drawls, grabbing his margarita glass, because Lydia makes a mean margarita. Plus, it’s a warm spring evening, and a margarita would go down nicely right about now.

“Obviously, Derek doesn’t have Facebook.”

Which, true. The last thing any member of a supposed illegal werewolf motorcycle gang needs is Facebook to track their movements and illegal activities.

“You know what I mean,” Stiles rolls his eyes, lighting up a cigarette. He ignores the way Lydia gives him a dirty look, because she slides an ashtray over anyway, so that Stiles doesn’t get ash all over her backyard.

“But you two are spending a lot more time together outside of the bedroom.”

“Yeah,” Stiles concedes.

“I just hope you know what you’re doing,” Lydia sighs, but that’s all she’ll say on the matter.

They spend the rest of the evening drinking, having dinner, and talking. By the time Jackson gets home from his shift at the mechanic shop, both Stiles and Lydia are drunk, giggling as they talk about something Jackson has no clue about.

“Seriously!” Jackson groans, eyeing the empty bottle of tequila, and equally empty pitcher of what once used to be margaritas.

“You’re a bad fucking influence Stilinski.”

Stiles only erupts in laughter, tossing his pack of cigarettes at Jackson.

“Please, like I could make Lydia do anything she didn’t want to do.”

Lydia hums in approval, popping a chip into her mouth.

Jackson narrows his eyes at the two, before tapping the bottom of the cigarette pack to get one out. When Lydia eyes him, scowling, Jackson just raises his eyebrow.

“If you get to be drunk on a Wednesday night, I get to have one cigarette,” Jackson grumbles.

Stiles erupts into even more laughter, because Jackson is terrified of Lydia and normally doesn’t smoke all that often. This is probably one of the few times he’ll actually get away with it.

Derek mirrors Jackson’s sentiment about getting drunk on a Wednesday later that night, when he gets a call from Stiles asking to come pick him up. Derek’s not that horrible that he comes on his motorcycle, because he can only imagine a drunk Stiles trying to hang on for dear life. As amusing as that would be, Derek wouldn’t appreciate the puke that would inevitably land all over him. So instead, Derek shows up with his Camaro, rolling his eyes at a drunk Lydia, as he guides Stiles to his car.

“Doesn’t this bring back memories,” Derek quips, when he slides into the driver’s seat.

“That was one time,” Stiles mumbles, resting his head against the window.

That one time being that he and Scott had gone to a bon-fire party in high school. It was after Scott had gotten bitten, so he couldn't get drunk, but he also apparently failed at making sure that Stiles didn’t get drunk either. Stiles had managed to drink a little too much whisky and was so beyond drunk that he knew he couldn’t go back to his house, or his father would kill him.

Instead, he had to call Derek who had to drive out to the forest to pick Stiles’ drunken ass up. Derek had given Scott a look that made Scott quiver in fear, as they all got back into Derek’s car. Scott ended up going home, and Derek had taken Stiles back to the clubhouse to sleep it off, thankfully Stiles’ dad thinking that Stiles was sleeping over at Scott’s house.

That night, Stiles had ended up throwing up all over the sheets before they even got ready for bed. Derek had to plop Stiles down on the floor while he grumbled, changing the bed sheets, and by the time they bed was remade, Stiles had passed out on the ground.

Derek then had to scoop Stiles up, put him on the bed, and make sure he wasn’t going to throw up again.

Derek has never let Stiles live it down.

Fortunately this time around, nearly 10 years later, Stiles can actually hold his liquor and makes it back to Derek’s apartment without puking. He makes it to Derek’s bed, stripping down to his boxers and passes out. He makes it through the night and morning without puking as well. So Derek rewards him with a nice greasy breakfast and coffee first thing in the morning.

**

The club have barely managed to deal with who killed Opie’s wife, when they’re already dealing with a whole new problem. They regularly purchase guns from the Russians, and then distribute them all around California, and it’s been a deal that’s been going on for years. Only, lately, with new government agencies and better screening procedures when shipping things overseas, it makes it harder to hide the weapons from the government.

Which is why the club is in a little bit of a tizzy at the moment. Mr Grekov, one of the oldest, most well known Russian gun suppliers has decided that he’s going to actually make the trip to California to meet with the MC to discuss new strategies for distributing the guns.

It’s not unheard of for Mr Grekov to come to California, but he only does it about once a year, sometimes once every two years, instead preferring to send his second in command to deal with the issues of gun sales. The club had gotten word that Mr Grekov would be showing up in a weeks time, which means the club has a week to get prepared.

Peter is an anal asshole, and wants everything to run smoothly. Peter also knows there’s a chance that Mr Grekov will want to increase the price for shipping the guns out to California, which means more money is going to come out of the club’s pocket. Which means that they’re going to have to increase the price of the guns to their buyers, and that is going to start a whole new issue.

With Peter on edge, it means Derek’s on edge as well. He’s the one that has to deal with the brunt of Peter’s complaints. Which means that Stiles is the one that gets the brunt of Derek’s anger when they’re at his apartment. Unlike Peter though, Derek actually apologies for being a bit of an asshole.

Stiles, for his part, understands how the club works, understands that Derek is under a lot of pressure right now, and it’s just one of those things you have to ride out.

**

Stiles has missed his routine calls with Stahl for the past two weeks, and besides the occasional missed calls, he doesn’t hear from her either — he doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not. He’s still not over what happened to Donna, and he still blames Stahl, but that doesn’t stop him from calling.

Stiles is actually back at his house — without Derek, because he has club business to prepare for, since Mr Grekov is arriving shortly — when he makes the call.

“Nice of you to make contact Mr Stilinski,” Stahl says, forgoing their security protocol, which must mean she is not in a good mood. “I was beginning to wander if you went rogue.”

“I’ve got what you’re after,” Stiles says by way of greeting. “Dmitriy Grekov is coming to California, specifically Beacon Hills in two days time.”

“Two days?” Stahl gasps, and Stiles hears rustling of papers, and shouting on the other end of the line. “That doesn’t give us much time!”

“Well, I told you as soon as I found out myself, there’s nothing I can do about that,” Stiles quips.

“Fine, fine,” Stahl agrees. “This is exactly what we’ve been waiting for. I’ll have my team ready, do you know where they’ll be meeting?”

“The clubhouse, though I don’t think Grekov will be staying there, I assume he has his own safe house.”

“What time?”

“Friday, in the afternoon after 3 I think.”

“Thank you Mr Stilinski, this is exactly what we need,” Stahl says, her grin is evident by the tone of her voice.

“I know it is,” and Stiles clicks off the phone.

Now it really is do or die.

**

Derek and the most of the club are outside the clubhouse, standing around in the parking lot just after their meeting with the Grekov family. Peter’s still inside finalising some of the finer points of the deal for bringing more guns into California.

Derek has a cigarette dangling between his lips, about to light it, Boyd by his side, when they hear a chorus of loud sirens coming from down the street. He’s barely lit his cigarette, and looking up, when Derek sees police cars and black sedans pulling up the driveway of their clubhouse and mechanic shop.

The rest of the club freezes, watching the events unfold. Derek barely registers Stiles walking up the driveway, after all the police cars.

Agent June Stahl gets out of a black sedan, in her tacky pant suit, holding a manilla folder in her hand. She takes her sunglasses off of her face, resting them on top of her head, as her clunky boots click on the ground, walking towards Derek. Derek only knows that the agent’s name is Stahl, because it’s the woman Opie had described when he and Donna were picked up, she was the one that tried to get Opie to flip.

“Where’s Peter and Mr Grekov?” Stahl asks, not letting her eyes waver from Derek.

Derek pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and nods his head towards the clubhouse. It’s no use denying that Peter isn’t here, there’s no where for him to run, it seems as if ATF has the place surrounded.

At that precise moment, Peter and Mr Grekov come out of the clubhouse to see what the fuck is going on.

“What’s going on?” Peter asks, straightening the cut of his leather vest, he doesn’t show any intimidation whatsoever.

“Mr Grekov, you’re under arrest,” Stahl announces, nodding to one of her ATF men to handcuff him.

Mr Grekov scoffs, asking what the fuck is going on in his thick Russian accent, looking at all the members of the club, as if he’s just been given up, handed over. He face shows that whether he gets arrested or not, he’s going to want retaliation on the club.

“How’d you know he was here?” Peter asks.

Stahl lifts up one of the manilla folders, looks at Peter, Derek, and then Stiles.

“Because your VP’s little fucktoy made a deal,” she announces, not even bothering to look at Stiles again. “Also, Peter Hale you’re under arrest, as is the rest of your club members under the RICO act.”

Derek’s eyes immediately land on Stiles, and Derek can feel the tension in his body, taut like he’s ready to snap at any minute.

Stiles for his part looks shocked, and then angered.

“You son of a bitch,” Stiles launches towards Stahl, but one of the other agents stops him before he can make contact with her.

“What is she talking about Stiles?” Derek asks evenly. Derek doesn’t think he’s ever spoken to softly, or so calmly in his life. It’s actually scaring Derek himself.

“You made a deal?” Isaac yells.

“You don’t understand,” Stiles answers, voice steady, pushing himself off and away from the agents holding him.

“You ratted?” Bobby yells, shoving Stiles. “You ratted?”

Derek lunges towards Stiles, yelling.

“You’re dead! Dead!” Boyd grabs the back of Derek’s leather cut, pulling him back before Derek hurts Stiles.

The other agents start to round up the club, leading Peter, Derek, Scott, Isaac, Boyd, Danny, Bobby and Jackson into one police van. A different agent leads Erica, Lillian and Minnie into another one. Other agents are presumably going to have to go out in search of Opie, Piney, and Tommy to arrest them as well.

The van starts to drive, and the members lurch in their seats. The tension in the van is unbearable and palpable. Derek is seething, his heart hammering in his chest a mile a minute, he has never felt so betrayed, so fucking angry. He wants to punch someone — preferably Stiles — or just cause pain, to himself, to someone. He just needs to get his aggression out.

Derek should have fucking known that he couldn’t trust Stiles. Why the fuck would he have come back to Beacon Hills so suddenly and out of the blue? Why was it so easy for Stiles to fall back into bed with him? It was all so fucking suspicious and in hindsight seems so blatantly obvious and he ignored all the signs. Peter even pointed it out for God’s sake.

“I’m going to kill him,” Derek seethes.

“If you don’t, I will,” Peter says in a voice that brooks no argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RICO act = Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act which just basically means it covers most crimes that are carried out within a criminal organisation, and the leader of said organisation can be held responsible for not only the crimes (s)he carried out, but the ones (s)he ordered. 
> 
> There's a whole bunch of other legal mumbo jumbo but you hardly need to know all that! :)  
> [tumblr](http://foughtthewolvesofpatience.tumblr.com/), come say haaaaay.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READ THE NOTES AT THE END FOR TAGS, SOME UNSAVOURY BITS COMING UP.
> 
> The first part, in italics is all from the past, explaining things.

_“Stiles Stilinski, I’m June Stahl, with ATF,” the dirty blonde haired woman announces, barely flashing her badge at Stiles._

_“What the fuck is going on?” Stiles demands. One minute Stiles was on his way home from a meeting with the new firm he’s working with, and the next he’s being hauled into a van against his will, he had no idea where he was going, or who took him. He was lead in through a back door, through various doors and down corridors before being led to a room, an interrogation room._

_June ignores Stiles in favour of opening and reading off of a sheet of paper in a manilla folder._

_“Stiles Stilinski, applied and accepted into Stanford University, studied political science. Made it work all the while travelling back to Beacon Hills to see your father — the Sheriff — and your friends. Graduated with good grades, even with the death of your father. What were you planning to do, go to law school? Anyway, that all changed, didn’t it? Applied and graduated from the police academy in the top 5 percentile of your class, after you finished Stanford. Joined the 17th precinct in New York. Manhattan, nice, very lucky, considering most rookie cops get sent to Staten Island,” with that June makes a face, as if just saying Staten Island is a hardship for her. June barely takes a breath before she continues on._

_“But then again, most rookie cops don’t have a father that was a Sheriff do they? Three years into the job, doing well, no marks on your record, you get shot. Bullet wound straight through the shoulder during an attempted heist at a jewellery store in Murray Hill. Ever since you got shot you’ve been working as a lobbyist, mostly for a non-profit organisation trying to help pass laws that better protect werewolves and other supernaturals that most of the general population would rather pretend didn’t exist. You’ve been able to live off the small payout and benefits you got from being shot.”_

_Stiles throws his arms down on the table, tapping his fingers on the desk in a random rhythm. He looks Agent Stahl up and down, and then eyes the folder that she’s holding._

_“Believe it or not, I’ve lived it, why do I need a recap on my own history?”_

_“Oh I think there’s a few things you’re not aware of,” Stahl smiles. It’s not a warm or reassuring smile whatsoever. It puts Stiles even more on edge, but he tries not to let it show._

_When Stiles doesn’t say anything, just continues sitting there, tapping his fingers, Stahl sighs and begins to pace the small interrogation room. Stiles lets his eyes wander around the tiny room, he can see the camera in the corner of the room but he notices the lack of red flashing light, they’re not being recorded?_

_That doesn’t matter though, Stiles guesses, because there’s still the two-way mirror directly in front of him, so whoever is heading up this ridiculous kidnapping is probably on the other side. It puts Stiles even further on edge because if this were ‘official’ the light should be flashing, and Stiles should have more information to go on. He’s this short of asking for a lawyer, but he figures right now he’s not being accused of anything so he’ll ride it out and see how it goes._

_“Peter Hale, familiar with that name?” Stahl asks, suddenly stopping, resting her hands on the other side of the table and leaning forward to stare directly at Stiles._

_Stiles doesn’t even have time to look down her blatantly open shirt to look at her cleavage, because the first thing that comes to his mind, that he dismissed not even 10 seconds away was, he should really get a lawyer._

_But, Stiles being Stiles, is just an arrogant little shit sometimes._

_“It seems to me like you’re asking a question you already know the answer to,” Stiles now crosses his arms, leaning back on his chair._

_Stahl stands up, her hands in mock surrender. She grabs one of the other manilla folders sprawled across the table and opens it up, depositing pictures in front of Stiles. Stiles’ blood runs cold._

_“You’re right, I do know the answer,” she explains as she puts forth pictures that are of Stiles when he was much younger, in his early 20’s, most of them with Derek. How the fuck does she have these photos? Who even took these photos?_

_“Are you getting to the point?” Stiles asks, trying to keep his voice steady._

_Stahl turns around, walks towards the two-way mirror, leans her back against it, crossing her ankles as she stares at Stiles. She makes him wait a few minutes just to put him even more on edge._

_“I have reason to believe that Peter Hale planned and orchestrated the murder of Talia Hale, the Alpha of the Hale Pack and president of Wolves on Wheels Motorcycle Club. I need your help to bring him down.”_

_“That’s bullshit,” Stiles scoffs._

_“Is it?” Stahl asks, cocking her head to the side. “Peter benefitted from the murder of Talia Hale. He’s always been an interest to ATF and other government agencies. He consistently went behind Talia’s back, making side deals. He had the most to gain from the death of Talia. He knew Laura would never take over for the MC and with that she withdrew herself as Alpha of the Hale Pack. Derek, he was too young to become president of the club, so Peter stepped in to become Alpha and president. Suspicious?”_

_“Derek would never have become Peter’s right hand, the VP if he thought Peter had anything to do with the murder. It was the Elite Alpha MC, any idiot with a brain knows that.”_

_“And yet Peter refuses to start a full out war with the Elite Alpha MC, for killing the president of the most well-known werewolf motorcycle club on the West cost?”_

_“Listen agent Stahl,” Stiles drawls with as much sarcasm as he can muster. “I don’t know what game you’re trying to play here -”_

_Stahl interrupts him, holding up her hand._

_“I take it you’ve heard of RICO before? The Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organisation Act, a United Stated federal law?”_

_Stiles shrugs his shoulders._

_“That implies that WOW MC is a corrupt organisation. They’re just a motorcycle club, last I checked that wasn’t illegal.”_

_Stahl snorts, pushing off of the two way mirror to start pacing again._

_“Don’t play stupid Stiles, gun running, drugs, multiple murders. It’s hardly going to take much effort to put together the RICO case, there’s a pattern to these crimes, all within the past 10 years and ongoing and continuous,” Kate ticks off on her hand. “Need I go on how I’ve basically covered all the requirements to push forward the RICO case?”_

_“You think I’m going to snitch on WOW MC?” Stiles asks, bewildered._

_“Oh no no, sweetheart,” Stahl now grins, pure evil, and like she knows she’s just won. “That’s exactly why you’re here. You’re going to help me take down Peter Hale and I, being as generous as I am, will put a pin in the RICO case. The rest of the club will be safe and off FBI and ATF’s radar. We only want Peter.”_

_“You expect me to believe that?” Stiles snorts._

_Stahl grabs yet another manilla folder, and pushes it towards Stiles so he can read. It’s a contract, outlining everything she wants Stiles to do._

_“That’s why I’ve had this drawn up, you sign it, bring down Peter Hale in an interaction with another criminal organisation, from there we can bring forth the case against Peter, and the club walks away free.”_

_Stiles shakes his head, shoving the folder away from him, not bothering to finish reading it._

_“You have nothing on me,” Stiles states. “I’ve never been a part of the club, I don’t have any inside information, and I sure as hell have never been involved in any of the alleged crime the MC participates in. You can’t force me.” Stiles leans back against the chair, folding his arms, balancing on two legs. Stiles has had enough of this bullshit._

_Stahl tuts, grabbing the last folder on the desk — how many fucking folders does she actually have? — and opens its up, looking at the contents._

_“That’s where you’re wrong,” Stahl explains. “Your dad, he was a dirty cop.”_

_Stiles nearly topples off of his chair, his arms flying out to balance himself on the desk. He jumps up, banging his fists on the table._

_“Bullshit!” he cries._

_“Nope,” and with that, Stahl drops more pictures down on to the table, just in Stiles’ reach. Stiles almost goes cross-eyed looking at old photos of his dad, in his old Sheriff’s uniform. There are pictures of him meeting with Talia at the clubhouse, at the Hale house out in the preserve. There are photos of the Sheriff meeting with Peter, again at the clubhouse and at the preserve._

_“That doesn’t prove anything,” Stiles spits._

_Stahl shakes hear, sighing exasperatedly, like she’s getting tired of this conversation already. So is Stiles to be honest, he’s ready to walk out that door and never look back._

_“Your mother,” Stahl starts. “Had cancer, ovarian, wasn’t it? Died when you were 14, 6 months after she’d be diagnosed, correct?” Stahl doesn’t let Stiles answer before she continues on. She drops more photos down on the table — and Stiles would know those eyes anywhere. But it’s not possible._

_It’s not fucking possible._

_“Wrong. She didn’t die, she turned. Talia Hale bit your mother, turned her into a werewolf. It was consensual of course, your mother and father agreed, it was to let her live of course, but with that came the part of the deal that was beneficial to Talia, to have a cop on the payroll, help cover up certain aspects the club participated in.”_

_Stiles was only half listening, he couldn’t take his eyes off of the photos in front of him. It looked exactly like his mother, only older now, with shorter hair, a little aged. Her eyes with the same soft hue of brown as Stiles’, his father always talked about how they had the same, beautiful eyes._

_“Only problem was, your mother was getting sick more rapidly. Talia didn’t have time to take the proper precautions to go through the official motions of turning someone — because if we could all have a werewolf bite when we got terminally ill, well the world would be overpopulated wouldn’t it? Worse than that though, in Talia’s eyes, wasn’t the fact that she ignored the law, it was the fact that she ignored MC protocol. She bit your mother without running it by and getting the votes from the club.”_

_Stiles swallowed, his shaking hands grabbing one of the photos, bringing it closer to himself._

_“I don’t understand,” he whispered._

_“Peter found out, of course he did, he had his nose in everything. He threatened to out Talia, he thought he had the leverage he needed, that he could control Talia while she was president. Talia was able to reach your parents in time, told them Claudia needed to run, she’d found somewhere for your mother to hide, out of sight. So,” Stahl says, taking a breath. “Your dad got your mom out, faked her death and had a funeral — it was only the only safe way. You could never know.”_

_“Is that why Talia died?”_

_“More or less,” Stahl nodded her head. “Peter thought he had one over on Talia, only after a few months she eventually started defying him, he wanted to keep gun running, she didn’t. So, the fire happened, blame it on the Elite Alpha Pack and voila, Peter becomes Alpa and president. Talia’s gone, and your mother stays hidden — Peter still had one over on your dad after all. So your dad stayed on Peter’s payroll, so to speak, and thus, your father was a dirty cop.”_

_“Did he kill my father? Did Peter fucking kill my father?” Stiles wheezed, verging on a panic attack. He shut his eyes and started breathing in deeply, in and out, he grabbed the water bottle Stahl had given him when he first got here, and took a large sip._

_“Yes, or so we believe, just like Talia’s death, there were too many loose ends. Chances are your father was just as defiant. Your dad never would have given up Claudia’s location, Peter wanted to know, when he didn’t get what he wanted, he killed him.”_

_Stiles sunk down into the chair, rubbing his hands over his face, then through his hair, pulling it slightly. He couldn’t take his eyes off of the photos of his mother. They had to be his mother._

_“How did you guys find my mother?”_

_“It’s not hard, when you have many agencies looking for her, we found her, we have her, to keep her safe of course, and so now we need your help to bring down Peter and then your mother can be returned to Beacon Hills, registered as a known werewolf citizen and all is right with the world again,” Stahl explained._

_“And if I say no?”_

_“I’d hate for Peter to find out where your mother is, for something to happen to her by Peter’s hand. At the very least we could pick him up for murder, charge him with something.”_

_“You’re a bitch,” Stiles hissed, standing up again, ready to lunge at Stahl._

_She ducked out of the way, holding her hand up with a raised eyebrow._

_“I really don’t think you want to assault a federal agent Mr Stilinski.”_

_Stiles balled his hands into fists and started pacing the small room, back and forth, muttering to himself. His heartbeat was going a mile a minute, this can’t be happening, this just isn’t possible._

_“So here’s the deal, again,” Stahl explained. “Sign the document agreeing to be a confidential informant, give me something to take down Peter, the club walks free of everything, your mother is returned to Beacon Hills safe and sound, and as a known werewolf citizen, not an illegal and I don’t open an investigation into your father being a dirty cop. I’d hate to tarnish his reputation, even in death.”_

_Stiles shook his head in disbelief._

_“You want me to become a rat, do you know what’ll happen if they find out? I’ll be dead. You can’t just lie to werewolves.”_

_Stahl tuts again._

_“Even you know there are ways around lying to a werewolf, it’s hardly old news, pills with Hawthorne herbs. It reduces blood pressure, stimulates the heart, and acts as a sedative. When you lie, it’ll throw any werewolf off. As for them finding out, well you just better have a good game face.”_

_“I want to talk to my mother, know this is all real.”_

_“Sign the deal first.”_

_“Fuck no,” Stiles spat._

_Stahl sighed, turned around to look in the window and nodded her head. A different agent soon came through the door with a laptop, placed it in front of Stiles and opened it up to Skype. Stiles came face-to-face (well a computer screen, but same thing) with his mother for the first time in over 14 years. They spoke only for a few minutes but it was his mother, and she was safe and unharmed. It was legit._

_Stiles’ mother, Claudia, was alive. Stiles knew now that there was no way he could say no to this deal, not if it meant seeing his mother again._

_“You’re a fucking bitch,” Stiles repeats._

_It doesn’t stop him from signing in the dotted line, agreeing to become a CI for ATF, possibly getting himself killed in the process. Stahl signed her part of the deal, saying that they were only going after Peter Hale and the rest of the club and the RICO charges wouldn’t come in to play._

**

Stiles, Lydia, Deaton, Tommy, and Opie are sitting in the first few seats at the front of the school bus as it hurtles down the highway. Piney is behind the wheel, driving like a maniac, swerving around the traffic. Soon, they pass most of the cars and it’s only them on the highway. Piney swerves the car taking an exit, and starts driving down a deserted road.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Stiles pants, verging on a panic attack.

“Stiles, you need to breath, calm the fuck down,” Lydia instructs. Lydia is wearing jeans, sneakers, and a black t-shirt. It’s the most casual she’s ever been dressed, Lydia does not wear sneakers. Yet she still looks perfectly made up, hair in a ponytail, nails perfectly manicured.

“We got this,” Tommy says, patting Stiles on the chest.

Piney slams on the breaks of the bus, as they all lurch forwards, almost bumping their heads against the front of the bus seats. Stiles looks out the window, and just as expected, there’s a police car with Deputy Parrish, and Agent Stahl standing outside the car. Mr Grekov is sitting in the back of the police cruiser in handcuffs.

Stahl looks startled when the yellow bus stops right beside the police cruiser, blocking its view from the deserted main road. She turns around to look at Parrish, wanting back up, when she realises that Parrish has a gun on her.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” she breaths, looking at Parrish aiming a gun at her. “What the hell is going on?”

Everyone gets out of the bus except Piney, who sits behind the wheel, keeping watch. Lydia unlocks the safety of her gun, pointing it towards Stahl, as if she’s expecting trouble. Stiles, Opie, and Tommy do the same. Deaton exits the car, and stands by the door of the bus, a spectator.

Tommy rounds the police car, opening the back of the police cruiser and grabbing Mr Grekov, dragging him out of the car. He shoves him against the police car, brandishing a knife, stabbing him in the chest, right through the heart. Grekov barely makes a noise, before there’s blood spurting out of his knife wound, all over Tommy’s chest and face, before he’s sliding down the police car, undeniably dead.

Stahl shouts in horror, hands over her mouth. She looks at where Tommy is wiping the blood from Grekov on his jeans like it’s nothing. Her eyes turn to where Lydia has a gun trained on her, to Stiles where Stiles also has a gun trained on her. Everywhere she looks, there’s a gun on her, and she has nowhere to run.

The other agents who were assisting with the transport of Grekov have been sent farther down the road, Parrish telling them that the Irish (the Russian’s biggest competitors in gun smuggling) are waiting to ambush and kill Grekov.

Stahl is on her own and in trouble, and she knows it.

“It was never really about Peter was it?” Stiles cocks his head to the side, his hand steady on the gun. He hasn't held a gun in years, not since he was a police officer, but it’s like riding a bicycle, it feels familiar in his hand. The weight, the texture, the cool metal between his fingers, it’s like he never stopped.

“Not really anyway,” Stiles continues. “Taking down WOW MC was a bonus, but taking down the Grekov family, the biggest Russian arms dealer, now that was the main goal, it would have made you a household name throughout the government agencies. You knew they worked with the MC and that’s why you used me to get to them, correct? You never gave a shit about Peter killing Talia Hale, you never cared about my dad being a dirty cop, or my mother being alive.”

“Stiles -” Stahl starts, putting her hands up in surrender, but Opie cuts her off.

“Get in the car, driver side,” Opie interrupts Stahl, pointing his gun towards the police cruiser.

Stahl blanches, before her shaky legs walk towards the police cruiser, opening the front door and getting in. Opie shoves the dead Mr Grekov away from the back door of the police cruiser, so that he can open it and get in.

“Hands on the wheel,” Opie instructs, the back of his gun directly pointing at the headrest, directly at Stahl’s head.

“Please don’t do this,” Stahl hiccups, tears streaming down her face. She’s shaking, on the verge of hyperventilating.

Opie ignores her pleas, bringing the automatic rifle up.

“This is what Donna felt,” he says and then shoots Stahl in the back of the head three times.

Blood splatters onto the front windshield, bullets shattering the glass, as Stahl’s limp body rests against the steering wheel, dead.

Opie gets out of the car, calm as can be, dropping the automatic rifle on the ground. He wipes his leather-clad gloves on his jeans, and steps away from the police cruiser and the two dead bodies.

Stiles instantly lowers his weapon and runs towards the police car, opening the passenger side door and grabbing the manilla folders. Lydia and Deaton are beside him in an instant, peering over his shoulder.

“Is that the deal?” Deaton asks.

Stiles reads the two manilla folders. One has the signed deal that marks Stiles as a rat on the club, the other has the deal that Stahl agreed to and then back-pedalled, the one where the club would walk free and not have a RICO case brought against them.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, handing the deal signed off by Stahl excusing the club to Lydia. Lydia quickly glances over it, nodding her head, before dropping it back on the seat of the police cruiser. She barely glances at where Stahl’s lifeless body is resting.

Stiles takes the folder declaring him a rat and rips it in two, destroying all the evidence.

While Stiles is destroying government evidence, Opie and Tommy are using their gloved fingers to scoop up blood from both Grekov and Stahl, marking the windows in a sign that directly points towards this being the doing of the Irish. That way the blowback isn’t on the club, and the Irish and Russians start their own war, none the wiser that it was WOW MC in the first place.

“Lets get out of here,” Stiles says, taking one last look at Stahl and Grekov.

There’s a part of him that should feel bad, ashamed, disgusted with himself. He’s never been one to ever think murder was acceptable, but he finds himself not even caring. Grekov had it coming, and Stahl was a dirty ATF agent, she also had it coming. He doesn’t even think it would have mattered if he were the one to pull the trigger, he’d still feel no remorse, feel no guilt at what he’d done.

He follows after Opie, Tommy, Deaton, and Lydia getting on the bus.

Once they’re all back and seated, Piney speeds off in the opposite direction that Parrish sent the other ATF agents in search of the supposed Irish. Parrish will take care of the crimes scene when the other agents return.

“Thank God that’s over,” Lydia declares, pulling at her ponytail to make it tighter. Stiles can’t help but be in awe at how calm Lydia is over all of this. She did just watch two people get murdered, help destroy government evidence, and is now speeding away from the scene of the crime.

He supposes it helps that he did tell her about the plan, the whole plan from the very beginning. She knew Stiles was coming back to be a rat, she knew he was risking his life, and she knew the reasons why. She never let on that she knew, never told Jackson — her boyfriend of many, many years — even though she knew that there was a risk for the club. She knew that chances are Jackson was going to get arrested, but she also trusted Stiles that it would all work out.

Lydia Martin is the definition of a saint, and a lifesaver.

**

Derek has been in jail for the past two weeks. He’s spoken to his lawyer — the same lawyer who is representing all of the club — and all she keeps saying is: ‘she’s working on it.’ Derek and the club do not pay the astronomical retainer fee, and the fee she chargers hourly just to hear she’s ‘working on it.’

Derek spends most of his time in his cell, lying on the bottom bunk, staring at the underside of the top bunk. He thinks of the all the ways he’d enjoy killing Stiles. So far, choking him to death seems like the best option. They used to like to play around with asphyxiation when they had sex before, only light choking right when Stiles was about to come, it made his orgasm all the better. Derek would love nothing more than to just be able to choke Stiles, and watch the life drain out of him.

So yeah, Derek maybe spends a little too much time thinking about all the different ways he can kill Stiles Stilinski.

Thankfully his cellmate doesn’t bother him too much, he’s a black man named Tyler, who’s part of the 9’ers gang. Although the WOW MC and 9’ers don’t always get along, right now there’s no feud going on between the two of them, so Tyler leaves Derek alone, and Derek leaves Tyler alone. The last thing Derek wants to deal with is having to come up with different ways to keep the truce between him and his cellmate.

They already have enough trouble when they have their outdoor time as it is. Some of the other gangs, some Mayans, some LOAN members, and various gangs are always trying to start shit when they’re outside. It’s a delicate balance between trying to come up with ways for everyone to get along in prison, or at the very at least ignore each other without starting any brawls, because then they’ll all end up in solitary or shot dead. So far, there has only been a few scraps in the yard that ended in some black eyes — on the humans gang’s side — and solitary for some of WOW MC members.

The prison warden is trying to determine whether the WOW MC should be moved to a special prison for others not deemed human, but in the mean time, they’re in general population. Most of the club are split up, being cellmates with other prisoners rather than each other, so the only time they get to see each other and talk is when they have outdoor time.

“Lowen says she believes we can be out in a matter of days,” Peter says to the members of his club. He’s sitting on top one of the tables, the club scattered around the table.

“On bail, pending trial?” Bobby asks. “Why would they ever dream of letting us out if they’re trying a RICO case?”

“She didn’t mention,” Peter concedes.

“Has she said anything about the girls?” Boyd asks worried, obviously thinking about Erica.

“She said Erica, Lillian, and Minnie are all okay. Only a few scraps but other than that they’re fairing better than us,” Peter answers.

“What about Opie, Tommy, and Piney?”

“At the clubhouse, never picked up, I don’t know why.”

“Fucking Stiles,” Isaac mutters.

“Fucking Stiles indeed,” Peter nods.

Derek grinds his teeth together, even hearing that name sets him on edge. He balls his hands into fists, willing himself to stay calm. He’s not about to hit one of the members of his own club, and he’s certainly not going to risk starting a fight with another prisoner before he ends up in solitary or transferred to another prison before they get bail.

“I’m going to kill him,” is all Derek manages to say before the bell is being rung, declaring outside time over.

**

Lowen — their lawyer — is right, she gets them out a few days later. The prison guards hand the members their leather cut and clothes they first came in with, as they change out of their god awful prison uniforms. They’re all escorted out the very same door that Bobby was escorted out from a few weeks ago.

“Feels like déjà vu,” Bobby mutters.

Derek’s surprised to see Deaton waiting for them with two of the clubs vans, and the prospects, but not Opie, Tommy or even Piney. Derek figured that they would want to be here when they got out. But then again, they might not want to actually risk just showing up at the prison, before they got their asses hauled in, wouldn’t that be ironic.

Deaton fixes each of the members with a look, as if he’s checking for injuries, before he straightens up. He then focuses his gaze alternating between Derek and Peter.

“Before either of you say anything, I suggest you listen to Mr Stilinski.”

Derek growls, feels himself ready to shift, claws popping out. Peter seems to mirror his thoughts exactly.

Deaton simply ignores them, walking back towards the van, and gets in the passenger side.

“As I said, I suggest you listen to him,” he repeats himself and that’s that.

The drive back to the clubhouse seems like it takes ages, but soon enough Derek can see the familiar buildings, and he doesn’t realise how much he missed it. Sure, it’s only been about three weeks, but three weeks is long enough, especially when it’s spent in a fucking prison cell.

They all amble out of the two vans, and are greeted by Opie, Piney, and Tommy. Everyone hugs everyone, telling them it’s good to see them back. When the girls’ van pulls up, Boyd is running towards the van, scooping Erica up into a huge hug and kissing her like it’ll be the last time. He then kisses Lillian and Minnie on their foreheads telling them it’s good to finally see them again.

“I think we need a chapel meeting,” Tommy says to Peter. If Peter were to listen to anyone at the moment, it would probably be Tommy. Peter only nods his head yes. “Deaton too,” Tommy adds.

Everyone gathers around the large wooden table, sitting in their respective chairs. Deaton stands next to Peter, choosing not to sit in his normal chair behind Peter like he normally does when he attends these meetings.

Soon, the door opens and in steps Stiles. Everyone, save for Tommy, Opie, Piney stand up immediately, pushing their chairs back, ready for a fight. Deaton stands idly by, not too concerned.

“Uh-” Stiles starts but that’s all he gets out.

In the next minute, Derek doesn’t even realise he’s moving, but he’s across the table and grabbing Stiles by the front of his shirt. He shoves Stiles against the now closed door of chapel, watching as Stiles’ head smacks off the hard metal door. Derek punches Stiles straight in the jaw before he can even think better of it.

Stiles’ head whips to the side, letting out a low groan.

Tommy and Opie are up in a flash now, grabbing Derek and pulling him back.

Stiles staggers a little now that no one is holding him, rubbing at his jaw, and Derek gets a sense of satisfaction when he watches Stiles spit, blood splattering to the ground. Stiles obviously bit his lip in the process and it’s bleeding. Derek knows there will be a bruise along Stiles’ jaw in a few hours.

Scott looks on startled, making a noise, as if to get up and go to his best friend, not sure whose side to be on. Before Scott can even take one more step towards Stiles, Derek growls, his eyes changing to light blue, threatening Scott, even though Derek’s being restrained by Tommy and Opie. Scott stops where he is, eyes darting between Derek and Stiles, before he sits back down in his chair.

Stiles rubs at his jaw, moving his neck from side-to-side, before he looks at Derek.

Derek hates the fact that Stiles doesn’t even look hurt, instead he looks like he understands. Derek doesn’t want that, he wants to see Stiles hurt, he wants Stiles to feel even a little of what Derek felt all these weeks.

“There are some things I need to explain,” Stiles says, still gingerly rubbing his jaw. He wipes away the blood from his lip on the sleeve of his plaid shirt. “Then, you guys can make your decision.”

Derek snorts, because he knows the decision the club will make. A rat doesn’t stick around the club for very long. They’ll vote, and Stiles will die.

He shoves Tommy and Opie off of him before fixing his leather cut, he stares at Stiles a few seconds longer with what can only be described as a murderous look, before he takes his normal seat beside Peter.

“Agent Stahl did come to me, did ask me to become a rat, and I did agree to it-”

There’s growls all around the table save for once again Tommy, Opie and Piney.

“But she had something on me, something I couldn’t risk. She had proof that my mother was alive, that her death was faked to protect me, I had visual confirmation.”

“Bullshit,” Peter drawls from the head of the table. Derek nods his head empathetically, in agreement with Peter. Stiles’ mom died from cancer many years ago, he remembers hearing about it, even thought that was before he even really knew Stiles, before they started dating.

Deaton clears his throat, walking towards the closed chapel doors, he opens it, signals to someone and a few seconds later, a woman walks in. She has short brown hair, short in height, in comparison to Stiles, who she instantly goes to stand beside, almost in a protective stance.

Scott squeaks when he sees the woman, his eyes in disbelief as he stares between Stiles and the woman.

“How is this possible,” Scott says, his voice going all high-pitched.

Derek’s reminded in that moment that Scott and Stiles used to be best friends, even before Scott was a werewolf and joined the MC. Scott knew Stiles when they were younger, so Scott knew who Stiles’ mother was.

“She’s a werewolf!” Jackson screeches, pointing an accusing finger at the women. “Your family is human,” he says looking at Stiles.

Stiles clicks his mouth shut, looking at the woman beside him, then at Deaton. Then Stiles’ eyes land on Peter, and they turn ice cold. Derek has never seen Stiles look so cold, so emotionless, and it’s easily the scariest Derek has even seen Stiles. Which confuses him even more, because Derek’s supposed to be the one that’s mad here, not Stiles.

“I don’t know what’s going on here-” Peter starts, apparently trying to end this whole conversation, but Stiles cuts him off, and his words are wielded like a weapon. His hands are balled into fists, as if trembling from trying to not start a fight, and his face is flushed red from anger.

“It’s true, my mother,” and Stiles stops to look at his mother, his eyes going soft for a second, before returning to Peter, “was suffering from cancer, ovarian. She did only have six months left to live. Except her and my father went to Talia, asked her for the bite. Talia had said yes, and was planning to bring it to a vote at chapel, only my mom took a turn for the worse and Talia had to make the decision. Bite my mom without taking it to chapel and without getting the proper documentation.

“Or risk waiting, and risk my mother dying. Talia made the hard decision, she bit my mom. Only someone found out, and started blackmailing Talia. They tried to get her to stay in the gun running business, even though she wanted out. They threatened to expose my mother not only to the club but to the authorities. Talia only had enough time to warn my mother and father, and that’s when they faked her death and made my mom run.”

“Who would blackmail Talia?” Bobby asks, bewildered.

“Of course, Talia doesn’t do something for nothing, why would she? For agreeing to bite my mom and save her from cancer, my father had to make a deal. He had to agree to be a dirty cop, look the other way when it came to the clubs illegal activities, cover for you guys with other government agencies, keep them off your back. My father didn’t give a damn, he would do it if it would protect my mother.

“After Talia died, and Peter took over, my father still had to remain a dirty cop. Only my father wanted out, he didn’t trust Peter, Peter was taking excessive risk, relying on my father to fix everything and make it all peachy again. Peter found out my father was planning to run, he was getting ready to take me and leave Beacon Hills without so much as a backward glance. He was going to take us to find my mother, and we’d start a new life somewhere else. That’s when Peter had my father killed, made to look like a rival gang.”

“Bullshit!” Peter slaps his hands down on the table, standing up. Tommy and Opie are once again to the rescue, grabbing Peter and making him sit back in his seat, unable to move.

Derek looks on in horror, from his uncle to Stiles, not sure what to believe, who to believe.

“Not only did Peter have my father killed, knowing that even then my mother wouldn’t come back for me, because it would risk my life, but he’s also responsible for the fire that killed Talia and the other Hale’s.”

Peter snarls again, trying to get up but Tommy and Opie keep a firm grip on him, even though they’re struggling a little. Peter is an Alpha after all, he’s stronger, and faster than the other werewolves.

“You can’t prove any of this,” Peter spits.

Derek’s blood runs cold. If Peter were innocent, he wouldn’t talk about not being able to prove anything, he would flat out deny these allegations. Derek’s getting more and more confused by the second.

“Why didn’t you ever start a flat out war with The Elite Alpha Motorcycle Club?” Stiles asks, folding his arms over his chest. “They did after all start the fire didn’t they? You made sure of that, probably paid them off, made some kind of truce. You offered something to them, once you came into power. You knew Laura would walk away, and Derek was too young.”

“I knew you were trouble the minute you stepped back into Beacon Hills. I should have just killed you,” Peter roared.

Stiles’ mothers eyes instantly change, glowing yellow, her claws extending from her hands. She takes a step towards Peter, ready to strike. Tommy and Opie don’t even try and stop her when she raises her hand and slashes Peter across the face.

Derek can’t help but stare in abject horror as blood starts to drip down Peter’s face, before the wound starts to heal itself in a matter of seconds.

“If you ever threaten my son again, even so much as look at him, I’ll make sure I’m the one that kills you,” Claudia growls, her stance saying she’s ready for a fight.

Peter wipes away the blood from his face, looking at his hand to see the blood, before he smiles. He looks back at Claudia, then at Stiles, his unnerving smile never wavering.

“I knew where you were all that time Claudia, I just never came to kill you. Why bother? Even after I made sure the Sheriff died in that poor accident, I knew you wouldn’t come back, couldn’t risk poor Stiles’ life here, could you? Though apparently, I should have killed you all those years ago. I suppose it’s consolation to know you were away from your husband and son all those years, knowing they were alive, your son grieving you, your husband missing you.”

Derek feels like he’s going to be sick, he sees red before his vision starts to blur. Peter. Peter was the one that killed his mother, Peter is the one that killed the Sheriff, Peter’s been the one responsible for every bad thing that’s ever happened to this club.

Stiles clears his throat, looks around the table, his eyes landing on Derek last.

“So yes, I did rat on this club. But I had a plan all along. I contacted Deaton right after I signed the deal with Stahl, I knew if anyone knew where my mother was, he would. He made plans to get my mother out and away from ATF agents when the time was right. He helped me figure out it was the Grekov family Stahl was really after, he was the top tier criminal after all — no offence to you guys or anything.

“I fed Stahl very little information, enough for her to stay off my back. We figured out the route that Stahl would take with Grekov once she had him, Tommy, Opie, Piney, Deaton, Lydia, and myself ambushed them. Grekov and Stahl are both dead, the deal I initially made which was to take Peter down and keep the club out of prison, I left those papers with the bodies and tore up the evidence that I’d ever made a deal with her in the first place. Stahl was a dirty agent, she killed her partner, made it look like an ambush from a gang, all to further a case, she kept getting away with these things, she’d only have done it again and again.”

“Lydia,” Jackson screeches, jumping to his feet. “You involved Lydia in this? You fucking bitch.”

Scott grabs Jackson before he can lunge at Stiles, Jackson angry that Stiles would include his girlfriend in this plan, the plan to be a rat.

“Yes Lydia. She knew from the beginning, I had to tell someone other than Deaton. My plan never involved Tommy, Opie or Piney in the first place when we were to take down Stahl.”

Stiles clears his throat, looking at Opie with utter regret.

“After Donna died, I knew it was my fault, I hadn’t expected Stahl to go so rogue. She planned to turn the club against each other. When Peter ordered the hit on Opie which I long suspected, Donna was the one in the car instead. Although I blame myself, Opie needed to know it was Peter that ordered the hit in the first place, for thinking Opie was the rat. Opie trusted Piney and Tommy to help.”

Peter doesn’t even try to object to Stiles accusing him of ordering the hit on a member of his own club. He must know it’s too late to deny anything now.

Stiles grabs a hold of his mother, holding her hand. He heads towards the door, only stopping once he’s opened the door and stepped outside.

“I know I caused this club a lot of pain, but I never actually turned rat. I did what I had to do to protect my family, but I also protected you guys as well — at least, that’s what I tried to do. I never knew the collateral damage would be this bad. And, you guys needed to know the truth about Peter.”

With that, Stiles leaves, holding his mothers hand.

Peter snarls, roaring, trying to struggle free.

Derek doesn’t even realise, on some subconscious level he’s up, lunging across the table, and punches Peter right in the face, repeatedly until he’s knocked out cold. He looks at Peter’s and can’t see past the rage, can’t see past all the horrible things that Peter did in the name of the club. Killing his mother and family, killing Stiles’ father — all to what? — all to make some more money, have the power of being Alpha and president of the club. It’s pathetic.

“We need to take a vote,” Derek says. The first thing he’s said since this whole mess started, after he punched Stiles.

Everyone nods their head.

It’s unanimous.

Peter Hale must die.

Derek’s going to be the one to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. There's descriptions of death/killing with literally no remorse or regrets on anyone's part.  
> 2\. Derek's actions towards Stiles are obviously not at all healthy, even with their twisted relationship (or lack thereof) but I had to write it like that.  
> 3\. I gave Claudia cancer rather than whatever it was (I forget what exactly) she had in the show, just because it was easier.  
> 4\. ATF = Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives.   
> [tumblr](http://foughtthewolvesofpatience.tumblr.com/) :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONCE AGAIN READ THE TAGS AT THE END, SOME UNSAVOURY THINGS!

It takes place in the preserve by the rebuilt Hale house. It’s more secluded and there’s no chance of a random person to stumble upon what’s about to happen.

The MC are all in the clearing, forming a circle, and Peter and Derek are standing in the middle.

Stiles and Claudia are here, out of respect for what Peter has put them through, to watch. Claudia said she wouldn’t have missed this for the world.

This isn’t about a fight for power, this isn’t going to be the typical werewolf fight, when someone is challenging the Alpha for their power. No, that would mean that Peter could have a chance at living, a chance of keeping his power. That’s not how this is going to go down. Peter is going to die, and that’s final.

Peter knows this, knows he can’t struggle or worm his way out of this, it’s too late now. Derek will not give him the courtesy of even having a fight, going out like a man, like a werewolf. That’s too good for Peter.

Derek looks at Peter across the clearing, in the small circle they’ve formed. Derek doesn’t even see a family member, doesn’t see someone who raised him after his mother and father died, doesn’t see his president, the man he always stood up for in chapel meetings. Derek doesn’t even see a person, he sees a piece of dirt, a piece of scum.

Opie takes the leather cut off of Peter, so he’s standing there in nothing but a v-neck shirt and a pair of jeans.

Derek takes his ka-bar knife from the sheath that’s hooked to the belt of his pants. The knife his father said would be his when he turned 18, only Derek got it sooner since his family died, all because of Peter. He looks down at the knife, then back up at Peter.

Derek takes the few steps across the clearing until he’s standing in front of Peter.  
Peter nods his head, starting to say: ‘nephew,’ when Derek plunges the knife into Peter’s chest. He infused it with Wolfsbane before he came to the clearing, to make sure it would kill Peter. He twists the knife in his chest, takes the knife out, and plunges it back in Peter’s chest. Peter’s slack body slumps against Derek’s chest, and he catches him, the knife still in Peter. Derek lowers their bodies to the ground, he lays Peter down on the ground, body limp, he stabs him one final time, and then pulls the knife out.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting, doesn’t know what it would feel like to have the Alpha powers transition to him. He feels this burning energy flow through him, making him shiver like he’s cold. He closes his eyes, shaking, and when he finally opens his eyes, he can tell his eyes are red, by the way the rest of the club members around the circle gasp and bow their heads in submission.

When he stands up, Opie tosses Peter’s leather cut towards Derek, and he catches it easily. He takes his knife and unstitches the patch that says: ‘president,’ from Peter’s cut. Derek takes his own leather cut off, and unstitches the patch that says: ‘vice president,’ he tosses the vice president patch towards Boyd, his new second in command. Derek will sew on his new president patch later that night.

“Deal with his body,” Derek instructs to Opie and Tommy.

They know how to get rid of a werewolf’s body, know how to cut him in half, make sure he remains dead.

Derek glances to where Claudia and Stiles are standing, and then he’s off, heading farther into the woods.

**

“Mom, I need you to go back to the house with Erica, Lillian, and Minnie,” Stiles says, turning to his mom after the killing of Peter, after Derek ran off into the woods.

“No,” Claudia shakes her head, grabbing Stiles’ hands in her own. “I’m not leaving you here.”

Stiles smiles, trying to reassure his mother.

“It’ll be okay, I promise.”

Claudia hesitates for a few seconds but then Erica is at her side, guiding her away. Claudia looks back one more time, tears in her eyes, and then looks away.

Stiles runs his hands over his jeans, a nervous gesture as he walks into the middle of the circle. Opie and Tommy drag Peter’s body off to the side so that they don’t have to look at him. Not that it really matters.

“I know this needs to be done,” Stiles says, nodding his head, as if he’s trying to reassure himself.

Opie walks up to Stiles, stands a few inches away from him, as they stare at each other.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, his voice wavering.

“I know you are,” Opie replies.

That doesn’t stop Opie from raising his fist and punching Stiles straight in the jaw. It’s the opposite side from where Derek punched him, not that it makes a difference. Stiles instantly staggers to the side, from the blow of the hit. He only has a few seconds to rub at his jaw and straighten himself up, before more blows land.

The next blow is straight to his face, getting his eye, then his nose, and Stiles can instantly feel the blood starting to flow. Eventually, he ends up on the ground, Opie above him, as he feels more blow land on his sides and on his chest. Stiles doesn’t even struggle, puts up with the blows that are landing on various parts of his body with grunts and cries of pain.

Boyd and Scott are instantly on Opie, dragging him up and off of Stiles’ limp body on the ground.

“That’s enough Ope,” Boyd instructs, and Opie doesn’t fight it. Instantly stops hitting Stiles, righting himself and fixing the leather cut of his vest.

“I know, I know,” Opie says, pushing the hair off of his face.

Stiles gasps for air, trying to sit up, wincing in pain.

Scott is at Stiles’ side in an instant, hand hovering on Stiles’ back so that he doesn’t fall over.

“Are you okay Stiles?” Scott asks hesitantly.

“I’m fine,” Stiles wheezes, bringing the sleeve of his shirt to stop the blood gushing out of his nose. He staggers to get up and Scott’s hands are on his shoulders helping him up. Stiles looks to Opie before he speaks again.

“We good?”

“We’re good,” Opie nods.

Opie and Tommy walk off to deal with Peter’s body, and the rest of the MC wander off, back to the clubhouse or back home. Scott is the only one that stays with Stiles.

Stiles sees Scott’s hand on his shoulder, the veins starting to turn black, and some of the pain instantly starts to alleviate from Stiles’ body.

“No,” Stiles says, staggering back, away from Scott’s touch.

“C’mon,” Scott whines, not enjoying seeing his best friend in pain.

Stiles shakes his head empathetically again, doubling over in pain.

“No. This was Opie’s payback for what happened. I’m responsible for Donna dying, he knows I didn’t have the gun in my hand, but I might as well have. This is how he gets over it and tries to move on.”

“You’ve got a black eye, probably a broken nose, and bruises on both sides of your jaw, me taking away a little of your pain isn’t going to heal everything,” Scott tries to reason.

“No, it’s fine. A few bruises and a broken nose doesn’t even begin to compare to a dead wife.”

“Fine,” Scott huffs, not satisfied. “Let me get you home, and make sure you’re okay. Your mom is gonna freak.”

“About that,” Stiles winces, allowing Scott to put his arm around Stiles’ shoulder to help him walk. “Any chance you can get your mom to take my mom our for dinner or something tonight? The last thing I need is for her to be worrying and hovering over me.”

Scott snorts, helping Stiles towards Stiles’ car.

“Yeah I’m sure they have a lot to catch up on anyway.”

**

When the district attorney honoured the agreement that Stiles made with Stahl about not convicting the MC in the take down, the DA also had to honour registering Claudia Stilinski as a known werewolf, and not a rogue one. That meant that Claudia was free to return to Beacon Hills, and not be hassled by local PD or any other government agencies because she’s a werewolf and wasn’t registered.

In the weeks after Stiles and Claudia witnessed Peter’s murder, it took them some time to get readjusted back at their old family home.

Claudia had cried as she walked from room to room, looking at all the furniture, and pictures on the wall. Nothing had changed from when she ‘died,’ even after all these years. It was all exactly as she remembered.

She had apologies profusely, time and time again, to Stiles, for lying to him. She apologised for being the reason why the Sheriff died in the first place. Stiles had to console her and reassure her that he in no way blamed her, how could he?

It will never be easy, and it’ll probably take Stiles a very long time to get used to the idea that his mother is still alive, but he’s happy, so fucking happy. As much as he wishes his father were alive too, he’s happy he at least has one parent to rely on. It doesn’t matter that he’s nearly 30.

Claudia had run to Canada, where she worked with a group of werewolves who were underground, trying to get them registered before they were killed. Most were bitten by rogue werewolves, or it was part of a crime syndicate. Even that far away, she always managed to keep an eye on Stiles from a distance, just making sure he was okay. She never even got to come back for the Sheriff’s funeral, but that didn’t meant she didn’t know, or didn’t hurt.

**  
Derek hasn’t seen Stiles in the few weeks since Peter’s death. He hasn’t even seen him around town, but he knows that he’s still about. Scott would have went on an epic sulking spree had Stiles left Beacon Hills again. Instead, Derek has been busy trying to fix everything wrong with the club. He has a lot to fix, that Peter royally fucked up.

The first order of business is to stop the drug muling. It’s the first decision he puts to vote as new president, and it’s almost all ‘yeses,’ to getting out of the drug muling. There are a few that still think that the MC should still be muling drugs, because it’s lucrative money — but when majority rules, no one gets too upset.

The second order of business is to try and stop the gun smuggling and selling, and although the MC are mostly in agreement again about this, it isn’t as easy as stopping the drug muling. There are too many connections with the Russians, not to mention the death of Grekov which is going to make it harder. It’ll most likely take more than a few months, possibly a year to be fully out of the gun smuggling but it’s a step in the right direction.

Derek begrudgingly has to hand it to Stiles that killing Grekov and framing it to make it look like it was the Irish that were the ones that did it was a smart move. That way none of the blowback is on the club, and the Russians think that the MC are in just as much shock as they are.

Of course, there’s still the matter of dealing with the MC’s other rival gangs locally, like the Mayans and the Elite Alpha MC, but dealing with the major stuff first is the main thing.

The thing that surprises Derek the most one night, when the club is at the clubhouse drinking, is when Laura walks in. Derek hasn’t seen her in over seven years, having moved to Connecticut of all places. If Derek were the type of person to sputter his beer all over the place, he would have when Laura walked in.

“Well hello there little brother,” she grins.

“Laura?” Derek says in disbelief. He knows it’s his sister, but he still hasn’t seen her in so long, ands he looks so different, older.

“As you live and breath,” her heels click on the ground as she walks closer to Derek. Derek’s up in an instant and bringing her into the biggest hug.

“What - what are you doing here?”

When Laura steps back from the hug she smacks Derek on the shoulder, before looking at one of the prospects behind the bar, waiting for a beer. Laura may not be part of the MC but that doesn’t stop the prospects from still being terrified of her. She was meant to be Alpha after all.

After one of the prospects hands her a beet bottle, she hops up on one of the bar stools beside Derek.

“Can’t a sister just wanna see her baby brother?”

Derek raises one bushy eyebrow, sceptical.

“I haven’t seen you in seven years, haven’t heard from you in over a year, you have a husband and family back in Connecticut, so yes, I want to know why you’re here.”

Laura nods her head, taking a sip of beer before dropping the bottle back onto the bar top.

“I heard about everything that happened, naturally, that kind of stuff flows through werewolf packs pretty quickly.”

“I would have called you,” Derek winces. “But I didn’t know if you’d want to hear any of it.”

“You think I wouldn’t want to hear about the man that killed my parents? The man who also happens to be my uncle.”

Derek winces again, letting his head drop down to his chest. Of course he should have called Laura, but he’s always torn between wanting to talk and share with her, and not wanting to bother her. Laura had after all walked away from the club, it wasn’t something she ever wanted. She moved to Connecticut, got a job, met a man — a werewolf — got married, joined another werewolf pack. A pack that doesn’t also act as a motor cycle gang.

“Relax baby bro,” Laura says, patting Derek’s knee. “I really just wanted to see how you’re doing, make sure you’re okay. I know none of this can be very easy. You were much closer to Peter than I ever was.”

“I can’t believe I was so fucking blind,” Derek admits.

“He had us all fooled love.”

“I don’t even want to talk about him. How’s Talia and Jack?” Derek asks, changing the conversation to his niece and nephew.

“Good, such a fucking handful,” Laura laughs. “God were we ever that bad when we were kids? It’s gotta be ten times worse when they’re kids and werewolves.”

Derek snorts, sipping his beer.

“Mom and dad survived with all of us.”

“Lord knows how,” Laura hums.

They fall into a conversation talking about Laura’s kids, her husband, her new pack, and the rest of the Hale pack soon join in, hugging Laura and drinking with her. No one has any hard feelings that Laura walked away, everyone understands that it’s not easy to be part of a motorcycle club.

Derek should have seen it coming. It was in typical Laura fashion, liquor Derek up and then get him talking. He was just too preoccupied and happy to see his sister that he missed the way she kept sliding beer bottle after beer bottle in Derek’s direction.

One minute it’s joking with the pack, knocking back shots and downing bottles, and the next Laura is asking the serious questions. If that doesn’t sober Derek up at least marginally, he doesn’t know what will.

“So, Stiles,” Laura says well into the night, more like early morning.

Most of the other members of the MC and the pack are either passed out around the clubhouse, gone home, or off drinking somewhere. Laura has Derek in her grasp now, and she’s not going to let him get away too easily.

“Not now Laura. Not ever,” Derek slurs, closing his eyes and tilting his head back to look at the ceiling in a silent: ‘why me?’

“Yes now Derek,” Laura insists, smacking the side of Derek’s head so that he stops staring at the ceiling.

“He put the club in danger, he got Lydia and Deaton to help him when they’re supposed to have the clubs best interest at heart, not some outsiders.”

“Stiles is hardly an outsider,” Laura raises an eyebrow that rivals Derek’s.

“He might as well be,” Derek grumbles.

Laura sighs, grabbing at Derek’s wrist and drags him outside of the clubhouse, away from the other MC members. She grabs the pack of cigarettes from the back of Derek’s pockets, lighting one for herself. Derek just looks on amused, because she’s supposed to have quit — something to do with become a mother, and being responsible, or something like that.

“Shut up,” Laura frowns, even though Derek hadn’t uttered a word. “If there was ever a time for a cigarette it would be now. What, with our uncle being psychotic, and now dead and all. Not to mention my baby brother just can’t sort his own life out with his boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Psssht.”

Derek grabs the pack of cigarettes back from Laura and lights his own. He leans against the wall beside the door to the clubhouse.

“Listen,” Laura says in her serious tone, which means, she means business. “Stiles went about this all the wrong way, but had he come to you in the first place, would you have believed him?”

“Of course I would have,” Derek says in-between drags of his cigarette.

“Really?” Laura asks sceptically. “You would have believed your ex boyfriend — the one who broke your heart and walked away from you — who just magically waltzes back into town, telling you that your uncle was a psychotic murderer who murdered half your family, and his dad?”

“I - well,” Derek falters.

“Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought,” Laura says stubbing the half smoked cigarette out with the heel of her heeled boots. “I’m not about to go overboard with the sisterly advice, but I just wanted to point all of that out. You never would have believed him. He had to do what he had to do to protect his family, and while he was doing all of that, he still looked out for you, covered for your ass. It’s a lot more than almost anyone else in his position ever would have done.”

With that, Laura heads back inside the clubhouse, leaving a floundering Derek to try and catch up and make sense of his spectacularly fucked up life.

**

“Sweetheart, you can only avoid him for so long, this is a small town after all.”

“Mooooom,” Stiles whines into his bowl of Lucky Charms.

Okay, so maybe he’s already gotten a little too used to his mom being alive. She fusses over him just like she used to when he was 10, even though he’s nearing 30. When Stiles had come home after the Peter execution, and she had seen how badly bruised Stiles was from Opie, she had almost lost her shit. It took Stiles a good hour to explain that it’s what needed to happen, and that all the wounds were superficial, and he’d be all better in a month, two months maximum.

“Oh Stiles,” Claudia sighs, sitting across the kitchen table from Stiles with her mug of coffee. “I don’t want to say you’ve been moping around the house, but that’s exactly what you’ve been doing. Not to mention whenever you’re out in town, your head snaps up every time you hear the rev of a motorcycle.”

“That obvious huh?” Stiles asks, digging the cereal bits out of the Lucky Charms, saving the marshmallows for last.

“That obvious,” Claudia nods her head.

“I - there isn’t - there’s just no going back from what I did. I betrayed the club and that’s like the worst thing you can do to those guys. It’s a surprise that I’m even alive and walking right now.”

Before Claudia can even answer, Stiles pipes up.

“Not that I regret it! I’d do it all again in a heartbeat if it meant saving you.”

Claudia does smile that time, taking a tentative sip of her coffee.

“I know that sweetheart, I never doubted it for a second. I just think you might be overreacting a little. You didn’t betray them, you saved them. You got rid of Peter.”

“At what cost?” Stiles counters.

“Well, I may not be the best person to come to when things go south in terms of making the hard decisions. My decision cost this family too much.”

“Mom-”

“No, no, no making excuses for me,” Claudia cuts Stiles off. “There’s a time to die for some people, and that’s that, your father and I cheated death but we didn’t really, did we? It ended up costing us a lot. Had we not made the decision to get the bite for me in the first place, your father would still be alive and maybe you and Derek would have still been together.”

“There’s no use in what if’s. What’s done is done,” Stiles sighs, shovelling a spoonful of marshmallows on his mouth. He chews then swallows, his eyes widening. “Ah, I see what you did there mother, very smart indeed.”

He grins, getting up from the table and dumping his empty bowl in the sink.

“Exactly, what’s done is done,” Claudia nods when Stiles comes to kiss her on the forehead.

“Doesn’t make it any less hard.”

“Tell me about it.”

**

Stiles has finally put his big boy pants on. It took a while, what with bruised ribs and all, makes it a little hard to bend over, but they’re on, and he’s ready to go. He has no idea how this is going to go down, he can only hope he doesn’t end up with even more bruises. He’d rather wait a few more weeks if that’s the case.

He consciously makes the decision to go to the garage rather than Derek’s house, because well, witnesses. Derek’s not likely to murder his ass in front of paying customers, that could only be bad for business.

**

Derek’s in the office trying to sort out the mountain of paperwork before him. Between Peter and Erica, the place is a mess, and now that Peter is, well, no more, Derek has to get even more of the paperwork under control.

His head hurts, the stupid fluorescent lighting in the office is hurting his eyes, and all he sees are invoices upon invoices, and there’s no rational order to anything. How Peter and Erica ever managed to get shit down, not to mention when tax season pops up — Jesus, Derek’s headache just got ten times worse.

It gets ten times worse when he sees Stiles standing in the doorway. Derek must have been really preoccupied with the paperwork that he didn’t even hear the jeep, or sense Stiles walking through the garage.

“You look like shit,” is the first thing that pops out of Derek’s mouth.

And, well.

Stiles does look like shit. Derek’s eyes roam from Stiles’ black eye, his healing nose, the bruises along his jaw. The way Stiles is leaning gingerly against the doorframe tells Derek that he’s in even more pain than he’s letting on. Derek can practically feel the pain radiating off of Stiles.

Stiles chuckles, dark and not at all friendly.

“Getting the shit beat out of you by a werewolf in a motorcycle gang will do that to you.”

“Opie,” Derek says in understanding, not a question. Opie hadn’t told Derek about this beating that he sees all over Stiles’ body, but no one else would have been responsible for this, they’d have no reason to.

“Yep,” Stiles pops the ‘p.’ “It seemed the only logical way for him to deal with the death of Donna.”

Derek nods his head, because he understands that.

“So um, I know the club voted to look out for my mom which I’m totally, one thousand percent grateful for,” Stiles hesitates, not even moving from the doorframe. He probably wants to sit down but he’s mindful of not wanting to piss Derek off.

Derek doesn’t feel like offering the chair to Stiles, even with it covered in paperwork.

“I was wondering,” Stiles winces at this, “if you guys voted on me? I mean, I know how this shit goes down, turn on the club, vote on keeping me alive or killing me.”

“You’re not part of the club,” Derek rubs at his beard, rolling the wheels of the office chair back, away from the desk, but doesn’t stand up.

“Well, I know that, but I’m still, or rather was associated with the club.”

“And you think I’d kill you?” Derek asks, raising a sceptical eyebrow.

Stiles throws his hands up in the air, and then seems to think better of it as he winces in pain.

“I’ve seen you kill a dude for a lot less than turning on the club.”

“Not someone I loved,” Derek says sombrely.

“Peter,” and this time Stiles winces because he’s a fucking idiot that can’t keep his god damn mouth shut.

“Are you just asking to be killed?” Derek sighs exasperatedly.

Derek gets up from the chair, and walks towards the door and where Stiles is leaning agains the doorframe. Derek notices the way that Stiles flinches as Derek passes him, as if he’s waiting for a blow. He only nods his head, and Stiles gets it: follow.

He walks out the back door, to the back where Stiles confronted Scott all those weeks ago, demanding they be friends again, move past everything.

Behind the garage is empty, save for a pile of old tires and other broken car parts, not a person in sight. Derek doesn’t miss the way Stiles is on edge.

“I wanted to kill you,” Derek starts, turning around to face Stiles, crossing his arms. “When I heard you first ratted on the club out in the parking lot with Stahl and Grekov. Then when I was in jail I even imagined how I would kill you. Then Deaton got all cryptic when he picked us up from jail, told us to listen to you.”

“That didn’t stop you from getting a good punch in after you got out of prison,” Stiles muses, shoving his hands in his pockets, probably just for something to do other than just standing there.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Derek concedes. “If my mother ever saw me hit you she’d have hit me ten times worse. Hell even if Laura heard about that I’d probably have a few broken bones myself.”

“Yet I understand why you did it.”

“And I understand why you did what you did. You do what you have to do for family, and with your mom alive, you didn’t have a choice.”

“I wanted to tell you,” Stiles says, his eyes going wide and innocent. More like the Stiles Derek first met all those years ago, when he really was innocent. Now, not so much. “I didn’t know how I could convince you about Peter without you alerting him.”

Derek nods his head. “Laura and I already had that conversation. She was right, I never would have believed you. I was still too hung up on the fact that you left all those years ago.”

“I never meant to sleep with you,” Stiles blurts and then shakes his head, as if he didn’t mean to say that. “I mean, I’m glad I did but that was never like my intention or anything. It wasn’t some ploy to get closer to you. Stahl even told me not to.”

Derek smiles, a small smile, but not at all a happy smile.

“Listen, I’m glad you came here, explained. I’m not going to kill you, the club doesn’t want that, it was never brought to a vote. Stick around, bail again, whatever you choose, your mother has a home here with us. We’ll always look out for her.”

Stiles nods his head in shock. Derek doesn’t know whether it’s because Derek has assured him that Claudia will be safe with them — they look out for their own — or because Stiles is getting dismissed. Derek doesn’t wait around to see which one it is, just sees Stiles nodding his head, and Derek strides back into the garage, and the office.

**

“I really don’t think this is a smart idea,” Stiles hisses for the tenth time that night.

Lydia’s standing in front of the mirror by the front door of hers and Jackson’s house, putting the final touches of her pale pink lipstick.

“I agree with Stiles for once,” Jackson nods his head.

Lydia pops her lips, taking one final look at herself before she turns around, giving the two men her best withering glare. It took a while for Jackson to get over his hysteria of Lydia being in on the plan with Stiles in the first place, first for being so hurt that Lydia would go behind his back, and second, because he was convinced the club was going to oust him just for being associated with Lydia. When he’d gotten over all of that, he had to admit he was kind of turned on to hear about Lydia holding a gun, he kinda wishes he saw that.

“Stiles said Derek said he could stay in Beacon Hills or leave. He didn’t say anything about avoiding the MC.”

“And you think walking into the bar where all of the MC is going to be is a good idea?”

Stiles nods his head in agreement with Jackson.

“Well, we’ll find out won’t we?” Lydia asks, striding out the door and leaving the two men gaping like fish.

**

Derek’s four shots deep in whatever Boyd keeps sliding across to him when he realises who’s walking in the door. Lydia and Jackson he was expecting, Stiles he was not. It’s much like the first time Stiles walked into the bar all those weeks ago, when he first came back to town. It seems like a lifetime ago, so much shit has happened, changed since then.

“Well, shit,” Boyd says when he notices the trio walking in. He slides another shot in Derek’s direction, and they down it as quickly as they can.

He knows he’s going to have to get used to it. Claudia isn’t going anywhere, she said she wanted to stay in Beacon Hills, and she’d become pack, but she doesn’t want anything to do with the MC, and Derek had said that was okay. Not to mention that she’s very close with Melissa McCall, and Claudia had her old family house here. Derek still wasn’t sure on whether Stiles was going to stick around for the longterm but he knows even if he does leave, he’ll pop back in every once in a while because of his mother.

Stiles had left shortly after Derek and Stiles had that conversation at the garage, not that Stiles even told Derek (why would he? Derek had to remind himself). But, Stiles had told Scott that he was going to LA for a little while due to work commitments. It’s been over a month and a half, and here Stiles is, back in Beacon Hills.

When Stiles walks up to the bar, near to where Boyd and Derek are drinking, it’s exactly like the first time all those weeks ago. Derek can’t help himself when he says: “Old Milwaukee for Stiles here.”

Stiles huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes at Derek, but accepts the beer from the bartender nonetheless.

Derek nods his head at Stiles’ face.

“I see you’re healing.”

Stiles nods his head, his free hand coming up to where the black eye is starting to fade, the other bruises around his neck almost gone as well.

“Lydia reset my nose, nothing but bruises on the face. Still a fractured rib but it’s not giving me too much trouble.”

“Opie really went to town on you,” Boyd cuts in.

Stiles just shrugs, it’s over and done with now. Maybe not the most sane way to deal with issues, but it worked nonetheless. Opie doesn’t blame Stiles anymore for the death of Donna. Shit happens, it fucking sucks, but you move on, somehow, someway.

“I better go say hi to Scott before he bites my head off,” Stiles grins, tipping his beer to the two men before he’s off in search of Scott and Scott’s girlfriend Kira, now that they’re ‘official.’

**

Stiles is drunk, like drunk six ways to Sunday drunk, and he doesn’t even care if that’s not the proper saying. The rest of the MC, after getting a few drinks in them are alright with Stiles being there, although Opie is at home with his kids.

Stiles loses even more money playing darts to Tommy — and why does he keep agreeing to play against a Scotsman? — Erica grabs him to dance, and Stiles is drunk enough not to give a fuck, before he’s grabbing Jackson and pretty soon they’re both grinding on Erica. Lydia looks on rolling her eyes, secure enough in her relationship with Jackson to not mind him grinding all over Erica, same goes for Boyd.

Lydia even whistles when Stiles starts grinding on Jackson, before Jackson pretends to be offended and goes to get another drink, but not before he smacks Stiles’ ass, and yeah maybe Jackson is definitely drunk six ways to Sunday.

Stiles is downing his umpteenth shot — clearly ignoring the ‘beer before liquor, never sicker’ saying, even though Lydia tells him it’s just a myth, and she is a doctor after all — when he spots Derek at the bar, with Juice. An irrational part of Stiles gets jealous — and Stiles isn’t even allowed to be jealous, but that doesn’t stop him — at seeing Juice all over Derek.

Stiles stares a little longer, because he’s a masochist like that, when he notices that Derek does not at all seem interested. Derek seems to barely be listening to anything Juice is saying, despite the fact that Juice is trying to drape himself all over Derek.

Now, Derek is not one that needs saving from some unwanted attention. There’s a knife attached to his hip, and a gun in the waistband of his jeans that can testify to the fact that Derek is more than capable of taking care of himself. But, they’re at a bar, trying to have a good time, and Derek probably doesn’t want to start any trouble, not unless he really needs to.

Stiles is moving towards the bar before he even realises what he’s doing. He pushes past the small crowd to stand on the other side of Derek, away from Juice.

Derek turns, his eyes instantly landing on Stiles.

“Wanna go out back and get high?” Stiles grins.

“Oh God yes,” Derek answers even before Stiles is finished asking the question.

Derek gets off the bar in a hurry, leaving a sputtering Juice, and follows after Stiles, out the back door and into the alleyway.

Stiles looks up and down the alleyway, then yells.

“Santino!”

Derek snorts, when he sees the familiar drug dealer making his way down the alleyway. “You know Beacon Hills drug dealer by name now, do you?”

Stiles grins shrugging.

“Isaac introduced us a few weeks ago.”

Stiles buys the Ghost Train Haze again while Derek buys the specially infused weed for werewolves. They plop themselves down on the old crates against the wall, as they start rolling their joints. There’s a collective sigh when they take the first puff.

“I can’t believe I gave up smoking for all those years,” Stiles says around a haze of smoke.

“Being a cop will do that to you,” Derek snickers.

“What was I thinking?”

“You wanted to be good?” Derek shrugs, letting the joint hang out of his mouth.

That really shouldn’t be so sexy, but Stiles finds it sexy nonetheless. Must be the whole bad boy personna.

“What was I ever thinking?” Stiles snorts repeating himself, stretching his feet out.

“You were always good.”

Stiles stands up quickly, startling Derek, giving him a look as if to say: really? He turns around so he’s facing Derek, kicking Derek’s boot with his Converse shoe lightly.

“Maybe I was once good, or at least tried to be, but then I came back to Beacon Hills, held a gun up to a federal officer, paid off a local cop with half my savings to help orchestrate the murder of said federal officer, and watched Tommy kill a Russian mafia boss or whatever the fuck he was.”

“You were doing what you thought was right.”

“I tampered and destroyed federal evidence, no trace of me ever being a rat. I stepped over Stahl and Grekov’s bodies like it was nothing, and I felt nothing over the death of them. I didn’t even feel guilty, I just - I just didn’t give a fuck. A good person would have some sort of guilt, even if it was fleeting.”

“I -” Derek starts, before cutting himself off. He takes a puff of his joint, running his hand through his beard, at a loss of what to say.

“Don’t you get it?” Stiles asks, throwing his hands up in the air, turning around, starting to pace. “I am the definition of fucked up. I always thought I had to be good, but that got me nowhere, it got me shot and out of a job. I like — no I love the thrill of the MC, the danger, the fighting.”

Derek looks at Stiles, horrified, or maybe confused. He gets up so that he’s face-to-face with Stiles, and not looking up at him like he’s some sort of God. Though Derek is starting to see Stiles like that, because all of this is not what he was expecting.

“I don’t understand.”

“Walking away from Beacon Hills and the MC was the stupidest thing I have ever done,” Stiles flails his hands around, forgetting about the weed. “I thought I wanted to be a cop, and that was okay, it had the thrill of it, but none of the same fun. Then when I got shot and was in rehab I just went looking for trouble, in bars, underground gambling, anything illegal. I mean, who does that?”

“An adrenaline junkie.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, taking a puff.

“I think it’s more than that, more deranged.”

“So, you’re not normal,” Derek says as if it’s nothing. As if Stiles isn’t admitting he likes the thrill of doing illegal things, getting away with it. Derek knows that feeling, he lives for that feeling. He just never thought Stiles was built the same way.

“No,” Stiles shakes his head, moving closer to Derek. “We’re not normal.”

“What are you saying?” Derek asks, because he has to ask.

“Lets not be normal together?” Stiles asks, raising his eyebrow, not that it even rivals Derek when he raises his eyebrow.

“You’ll stay in Beacon Hills?” Derek asks, instantly drawing closer to Stiles as if they’re magnets.

Stiles rolls his eyes and grabs Derek by the cut of his leather vest and pulls him in, kissing him. It’s not at all gentle, and they both have alcohol and weed on their breath, a sloppy, dirty, and wet kiss, and neither would have it any other way.

They pull away from the kiss, Stiles resting his forehead against Derek’s, breathing the same air. Stiles brings his hand up between them, the one with the joint, and takes in a big drag. Derek’s eyes are fixed on where Stiles’ mouth is inhaling, and he knows what’s coming. Just the thought turns him on almost as much as kissing Stiles does.

Stiles, having taken a hit of the weed, tilts his mouth up the last little bit to be level with Derek’s, and starts to blow the smoke into Derek’s mouth, as Derek inhales it. When all the smoke leaves Stiles’ mouth, he quickly presses his mouth to Derek’s in a quick kiss before pulling apart, grinning.

“I take it that’s a yes to staying in Beacon Hills?” Derek asks after blowing out the smoke.

“That’s a fuck yes.”

**

Stiles is jolted awake by someone yelling his name.

“Stiles Genim Stilinski!”

Stiles realises three terrifying things at once.

He’s lying on something hard and lumpy, that’s not reassuring at all.  
That is distinctly his mother’s voice yelling his name.  
He’s in jail. He remembers that now.

When Stiles looks up, he sees his mother standing on the other side of the jail cell bars, Scott standing behind her looking sheepish and very sorry. Stiles is going to kill Scott. Stiles’ eyes land on the right side of the concrete wall, to where the other cell is, and where Derek Hale is currently residing.

“Scott,” Stiles groans.

“Don’t you Scott him Mr!” Claudia barks, and Jesus Stiles forgot how loudly his mother can yell.

“I was at my mom’s when you called, she heard and insisted on coming!” Scott whines.

The officer opens the cell and releases Stiles, before moving to the next cell and releases Derek.

“You guys are being let go without any charges being pressed, next time is another matter,” one of the officers announces, not looking pleased at all. God Bless Parrish, who is still on the WOW MC’s payroll and can get them off of these silly little charges without a hitch.

“What were you thinking?” Claudia demands, whacking him in the back of the head lightly, before frog marching him out of the station.

It is the single most embarrassing thing to happen to Stiles in his adult life.

“Mother,” Stiles says very seriously when they get out of the police station, he goes to light a cigarette, but when his mother glares at him, he sighs, shoving the pack back in his pocket. “I was defending the honour of a porn star, surely you can’t be angry at me for that?”

Claudia throws her hands up in the air in such a Stiles’ mannerism (or, more like a Claudia mannerism, that must have been where Stiles got it) sighing.

“The day WOW MC decided to open a porn studio, why on earth?” she says before she shakes her head. “I’m going home, come on Scott, drive me. If you land yourself in jail again, you’ll be spending the night you hear me?”

Stiles, for his part drops his head, scuffing his shoes on the pavement.

“Yes mom.”

“And Derek, I don’t care if you’re president of a motorcycle gang, you land yourself in jail with my son again, you can rest assured your pack will leave you in there.”

Derek resists the urge to scoff, because he knows that won’t go down very well. Plus, despite his being a badass, he doesn’t doubt that Claudia would persuade the MC to leave his ass in jail overnight just for the hell of it.

“Understood,” Derek says instead, resisting the urge to grin.

Claudia and Scott start walking away, and Scott turns around mouthing: ‘sorry,” before he gets into his car, Claudia getting in the passenger side.

In the months following Derek and Stiles getting back together, there have been changes into how the club does business. They’re not fully out of the gun business yet, and business at the mechanic shop is going well, but they wanted other enterprises to bring in money. It seemed such an obvious choice to open the porn studio. The rival studio in the next town over is known for treating their men and women like shit, so it wasn’t hard for the MC to get them to sign with WOW-GASM studios.

The MC are in their element with the porn business, well, most of them are. Opie met a porn star who has a son, and they’ve been on a few dates. Isaac has taking to directing the pornos, and he’s a natural fucking talent at it. Tommy, Minnie, and Bobby have had their fair share of fun with the porn stars as well.

All in all, it’s a sound investment.

**

They get out of the taxi outside of Derek’s apartment, none of the MC wanting to get out of bed so late in the night just to bail Stiles and Derek out of jail.

Stiles starts running towards the building and up the stairs, Derek chasing behind him.

They reach the top, and Stiles is out of breath, and can’t control his laughter as Derek opens the door.

“I can’t believe we did that,” Stiles says between hiccupping laughs.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Derek grins, opening the door to his apartment.

“The dude is lucky all he got was that fucking beating,” Stiles trails into the apartment behind Derek. “He’s a fucking asshole and can’t treat women like that, just because they’re porn stars.”

“I agree,” Derek slides the leather vest off his shoulders and drapes is over the back of the couch.

“He ever touches one of the girls again, he has another thing coming,” Stiles says now, seriously. His eyes turning dark, as if he’s thinking about it, and then thinking about what he wants to do to the guy. It kinda, no more than kinda, turns Derek on.

And well, the dude was a serious creep. He thinks he can rough up the girls just because they’re porn stars, and he’s pissed that Derek stole all his best porn stars. Derek and the MC know how to keep their porn stars happy at least.

“You look so good right now,” Derek says, dragging Stiles into him. Derek ghosts his hand over Stiles’ cheek where there’s a small cut, held together with butterfly bandages. Though Stiles punched the living daylights out of the sleazy porn director, the dude got a punch in as well, his rings cutting Stiles’ cheek. The wound has stopped bleeding, but its still bright red, and just so fucking gorgeous.

Stiles was definitely correct when he said there was nothing normal about them. Seeing Stiles with cut doesn't make Derek want to kill the dude who hurt him (okay, well maybe a little) but it turns him on even more, because he got to see Stiles take care of himself. Got to see Stiles lose control, punch and beat the man who treated the porn star, Luann horribly.

Derek can’t hold out any longer, drags Stiles into a wet kiss.

Stiles hums into the kiss, letting his hands drag down Derek’s chest, resting on the waistband of his jeans. Stiles’ hand slip behind to grab Derek’s ass, and he feels the press of a gun. That only makes Stiles moan more into the kiss, and Derek pulls away smirking.

“Thrill seeker indeed,” Derek muses.

“Shut up,” Stiles huffs, but drags Derek back in by the ass. “God, I wanna blow you so bad right now.”

It’s Derek’s turn to groan, before he’s dragging Stiles to the bed.

They shuck their clothes off with the impatience of two men who are too horny to drag anything out any longer. Spending a few hours, separated in a jail cell is enough foreplay needed. For most people — most normal, sane people that would be a mood killer — but for these two, it’s a fucking turn on. So sue them.

Derek rearranges Stiles on the bed so he’s laying across it, naked, with his head hanging off of the side of the bed.

“Oh God,” Stiles groans after Derek’s finished rearranging him. Stiles knows exactly where this is going, and he fucking loves it.

“Good with this then?” Derek asks, looking down at Stiles. Derek’s gently tugging at his hard cock, watching as Stiles swallows, his eyes wide, and nods.

“More than good.”

Stiles automatically opens his mouth, his eyes closing and Derek can’t resist, can’t take the time to let his eyes wander over Stiles body sprawled across the bed.  
 Derek, hand on his cock, guides it into Stiles’ mouth, and Stiles’ lips instantly wrap around it.

With Stiles’ head hanging off of the bed, he can’t do much more than let his tongue roam over Derek’s cock, can’t try and bob his head without hurting his neck. He trusts Derek enough to let Derek take what he needs, let Derek set the pace.

Derek’s breath gets caught in his throat when he feels Stiles’ tongue, when he feels the drag of that tongue when Derek pulls out, and then pushes back in.

This way, with Derek fucking Stiles’ mouth like this, Derek gets to see all of Stiles’ body in a way that he can’t when Stiles is on his knees sucking Derek’s cock. He can see Stiles’ pretty flushed cock resting against his stomach, hard, aching and wanting. He can see the pre come dribbling onto Stiles’ stomach. He can see the way Stiles’ stomach heaves with each breath he tries to take, trying to control his breathing as he breaths through his nose. He can see the way Stiles’ toes flex.

Derek just loves the way he has Stiles laid out perfectly for him, while simultaneously getting his cock sucked. It’s certainly no hardship for Derek to fuck Stiles’ mouth like this, Derek loves this just as much as Stiles does.

Stiles loves getting used like this, letting Derek take his pleasure.

When Derek starts to push in deeper, harder, he can feel Stiles tense beneath him, but he doesn’t stop. Stiles doesn’t give their signal they established all those years ago. Stiles loves to try and take it to the edge, push himself harder, and farther each time, and Derek is more than willing to oblige.

Derek pushes, and shoves his dick farther down Stiles’ throat. He can tell Stiles’ eyes are probably already starting to water, and even then Stiles doesn’t want to stop.

Derek likes the pretty noises Stiles make, all involuntarily because Stiles can’t say much with a cock down his throat. It’s just the slick sound of a cock being pushed into a hot, wet mouth. It’s the choking sounds as Stiles takes more, trying not to gag too much, as he tries to relax himself to take more.

He likes the way Stiles’ hands grip the sheets tight-fisted, avoiding touching his own cock. Derek will take care of that after, if Stiles is good. He likes the way Stiles’ feet push on the bed, an eternal struggle between wanting to get away, and not actually wanting to, before he lets his feet relax again.

“Such a good boy,” Derek says, loud enough for Stiles to hear over the choking noises he’s making.

Derek lets his hand rest on Stiles’ throat, squeezing ever so gently, enough so that Stiles can feel it. Stiles makes even more noises, groaning — or trying to — as his hands grip the sheets even tighter, his body taut.

“How long do you think you could do this for?” Derek asks between pants, his eyes transfixed to his cock pushing into Stiles’ mouth. He knows Stiles can’t answer, obviously, but he likes the way Stiles’ body just automatically reacts to the sound of his voice. It’s fucking invigorating.

On the last few thrusts, Derek pushes in, farther than they’ve ever gone before, only for a few seconds before he eases up, he continues a few more times, taking his hand away from Stiles’ throat, not wanting to push the face fucking too far, not yet at least.

Derek can feel his own body tensing, his balls too tight and ready for release. He pulls out of Stiles’ mouth all at once, and Stiles has a few seconds to cough, gasp for air, spit and drool all around his face, his eyes covered in tears.

Derek would love to have a picture of this, capture how exactly Stiles looks right after Derek had his cock right down Stiles’ throat. He’ll just have to commit it to memory.

“That’s it,” Derek pants, his hands still stripping his cock, jerking off hard and fast, right over Stiles’ face.

Stiles knows this part of the dance, so to speak, once he’s recovered from the coughing, he shuts his eyes, and keeps his mouth open. He waits patiently — or as patiently as he can — his hands still not touching his own neglected cock, listening to Derek jerk himself off over Stiles.

In a few second he can hear Derek groan, swearing under his breath, and then Stiles feels warm come landing all over his face, some droplets in his mouth. He stays perfectly still, waiting for the last of Derek’s come to splatter on his face.

It’s fucking dirty, and that’s how they both like it.

Stiles swallows the few drops of come that landed in his mouth, and he feels Derek’s finger land on his face, scooping the other strings of come on Stiles’ face, before Derek is gently pushing his fingers past Stiles’ parted lips, feeding him the rest of the come.

“Perfect, you’re so perfect,” Derek says as he eases Stiles up, his hands supporting Stiles’ head and neck. Stiles flops back on the bed haphazardly, and Derek rearranges a pillow under Stiles’ head so he’s comfortable.

“Fuck,” Stiles tries to say but his voice is so raspy, and he probably wont be able to talk for a good few minutes.

Derek shushes him, and Stiles is too exhausted to even argue. He closes his eyes, and his body instantly relaxes when Stiles feels Derek’s hand wrap around his cock.

He tries to groan in pleasure, before he just turns his head to the side, and sighs.

Derek doesn’t tease Stiles, he pulls at Stiles’ cock with purpose, letting his thumb rub over the slit, smearing the pre come around. He lets his other hand fondle Stiles’ balls, and after that it doesn’t take much more.

Stiles’ body tenses before he’s coming, strips landing across his chest, and Derek can’t help but just stare, mesmerised.

Once Derek has pulled the last drops of come out of Stiles’ cock, he’s hovering over Stiles on all fours, and he dips his head, running his tongue up Stiles’ chest, collecting all the come, getting his taste of Stiles.

Stiles just groans, letting one of his hands flop towards Derek’s head, absentmindedly running his hands through Derek’s hair. Derek laughs, when he pulls his mouth away from Stiles’ chest.

“Stay here,” Derek instructs.

Stiles, must really be exhausted because he doesn’t even snort at the command. It’s not like Stiles has the energy to even more over an inch, let alone leave the bed.

When Derek comes back to the bed he has a glass of water, and hands it to Stiles. He doesn’t stop staring until Stiles has finished the full glass of water, and then Derek grabs it, putting the empty glass on the bedside table.

“Good?”

“Mmm,” Stiles answers, nodding his head. He leans in to kiss Derek, and Derek enjoys tasting their combined come.

Dirty they like it, indeed.

They’re both lounging in Derek’s bed, the sheets skewed all over the place, half on the bed, half off. Derek’s leaning against the headboard and Stiles has his head pillowed in Derek’s lap. Derek grabs the pack of cigarettes on his nightstand and lights one up, after he takes a drag he hands it to Stiles.

“Jesus are we really these people now?” Stiles asks in-between puffs. “Fucking like crazy and then lounging around in bed smoking a cigarette?”

“Looks like it,” Derek snatches the cigarette back, flicking the ash into the ashtray.

“Good,” Stiles says adamantly. “I like it.”

“Me too,” Derek laughs.

Stiles gets up, readjusting his pillow so he’s leaning against the headboard beside Derek. He throws one of his legs over Derek’s, sitting close enough so there shoulders are touching, as if he wants to be as connected to Derek as he can.

“I can’t believe my mother had to pick me up from jail tonight.”

“Worth it if it led to this,” Derek points out.

“How would you feel if Laura had to bail your ass out of jail?”

“Point taken,” Derek huffs.

**

It’s a little later in the night — or rather early in the morning — and Stiles has gotten them a snack, snuggling back in bed with music playing from Stiles’ phone.

“The MC were thinking about riding out to Vegas, seeing the WOW MC charter out there.”

“Vegas huh?”

“Yeah, we were thinking of a road trip, spending a few days out there, seeing the other members, chilling.”

“I don’t know,” Stiles sighs, tilting his head to the side. “Sounds kinda boring don’t you think?” Stiles jokes in a teasing tone.

Derek hmm’s.

“Tell me about it, what kind of trouble could we ever get into in Vegas?”

“I can think of a few things,” Stiles smirks.

Derek laughs, tackling Stiles to the bed. Stiles is on his back, and Derek rests his forearms on Stiles’ chest, resting his chin on his arms. Derek traces his finger over the scar from where Stiles was shot, feeling the rough texture. He does that every once in a while when they’re in bed, like he can’t believe that Stiles was actually shot.

Derek might be an adrenaline junkie, an outlaw, and he might like seeing Stiles with a few bruises here and there, but he can hardly bare the thought of Stiles actually getting shot, and Derek not being there. Had the shot been a few more inches to the right, Stiles could have died. He knows it’s no use to think in ‘what if’s,’ but he still can’t help tracing his finger around the scar.

“The woes of being a human,” Stiles muses, his hand covering Derek’s, where it’s resting on top of the scar. “If you were human, you’d be covered in scars.”

“But I’m not, and I heal quicker.”

“And you could get hit by a wolfsbane bullet, or a blade cutting you into pieces, and no amount of werewolf healing will help you.”

“But you can die so much easier,” Derek says quietly.

“We know this lifestyle isn’t the most safe,” Stiles points out just as quietly.

And Stiles is right. The MC might be moving into safer, more legal territory but they’ll always be known as the Hale pack and WOW MC and those names alone carry significant meaning among other motor cycle gangs and werewolf packs. There will always be trouble lurking around the corner, a fight to be had, and some will come out of it alive, and some won’t. But that’s just the way this lifestyle is, living like an outlaw.

Derek knows he’ll never move completely out of this lifestyle, and Stiles will never leave Beacon Hills again, not with his mother here, and not the way Stiles is now, now that he’s stopped trying to be good, not after everything he’s been through.

They’ll live this life, work hard, play harder.

Derek will always have his motorcycle, he’ll have to be dead before he gives that up. He’ll never tire of being on an open road, feeling the wind on his face, the power of the bike between his legs. He’ll never tire of Stiles being behind him on the motorcycle, and even if Stiles decides to get his own bike one day, he’ll never tire of seeing Stiles riding his own motorcycle, Derek, Stiles and the MC ready to raise a little hell.

Or maybe, raise a lot of hell.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Mention/description of death.  
> 2\. Opie and Stiles get into an altercation, but Stiles is expecting it, and doesn't stop it. It's not at all sane or how friends should act towards each other.  
> 3\. Stiles and Derek have sex and don't explicitly have a conversation about safewords, it's kind of implied that they both understand it's the same as it was all those years ago, when they were dating. 
> 
> Ahhh, I can't believe I actually finished this and managed to post it all. I avoided making it a WIP because I always end up changing little bits and whatnot, but then when I try and write it all out I sometimes get a little sidetracked and want to give up on it because there's no feedback, but ultimately it's the best way to do it (for me at least).
> 
> So yeah, Stiles is not a goody two shoes here, nor is anyone else, even Claudia knows it's not all legal, but they're accustomed to this lifestyle, so if that wasn't your thing and you still read this, thanks!
> 
> Uh, I have no idea what else to say, so, [tumblr](http://foughtthewolvesofpatience.tumblr.com/), some say hi if you're bored, i'm always on there. :)

**Author's Note:**

> I've basically listened to Yelawolf Till It's Gone while writing this fic, although the title is taken from Radical Face's The Crooked Kind.
> 
> Also, if the spacing is all weird, sorry. I post it from my Mac and Pages and I don't know if it's that or ao3.
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://foughtthewolvesofpatience.tumblr.com/)


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